UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Dr.   Kate   Gordon 


Small  Souls 


SMALL  SOULS 


BY 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Author  of  "The  Footsteps  of  Fate,"  etc. 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA   DE  MATTOS 


COPYRIGHT,  1014 
BY  DODD.  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


o     »     1     - 

.  -«,.     . 

If  • 


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KG 


THIS  story  is  translated  from  the  Dutch  of  Louis 
Couperus,  the  foremost  novelist  in  a  country  which 
has  lately  had  the  good  sense  to  join  the  Berne  Con- 
vention.    Friends  who  have  seen  my  version  in  man- 
uscript suggest  to  me  that  certain  details  of  the  ac- 
tion and  dialogue  strike  an  exotic  note  to  English 
ears  and  may  therefore  need  some  interpretation. 
^  But  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  burden  a  work  of 
U    fiction  with  an  array  of  foot-notes  nor  to  believe  that 
^  it  is  really  necessary  to  explain  to  readers  of  Cou- 
perus'   fellow-countryman,    "  Maarten    Maartens," 
v^"   that  Dutch  men  and  women  of  the  upper  classes  still 
(^    call  their  parents  "  Papa  "  and  "  Mamma,"  as  the 
English  did  in  the  sixties,  and  still  drink  tea  after 
^     dinner,  as  the  English  did  in  the  forties;  that,  in 
^    Holland,  persons  of  quality  are  not  addressed  by 
V    their  titles  in  conversation;  that  it  is  not  quite  cor- 
<     rect,  or  that  it  is  at  least  a  departure  from  the  aris- 
<(jN   tocratic  tradition,  for  a  lady  of  family  not  to  wash 
up  her  own  breakfast-china  at  the  table;  that  the 
Dutch  speak  of  Java  as  India  and  sometimes  marry 
native  wives,  who,  nihilo  obstante,  are  "  received  " 
by  the  "  family  "  at  home. 

I  have  done  my  best,  by  a  complicated  and  per- 
haps only  partly  successful  system  of  italics,  hyphens 
and  dots,  to  render  the  various  eccentricities  of 
speech  of  Cateau  van  Lowe,  Adolphine  van  Saetzema 

290821 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 

and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer.  The  few  Malay  words  em- 
ployed by  the  last-named,  by  Otto  van  Naghel's  wife 
and  by  her  native  nurse  are  explained  in  notes  as 
and  when  they  occur. 

Small  Souls  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  four  novels 
describing  the  fortunes  of  the  Van  Lowe  family  and 
known  in  Holland  by  the  generic  title  of  The  Books 
of  the  Small  Souls.  The  remainder  will  be  trans- 
lated and  published  if  and  as  the  antecedent  volumes 
find  favour  with  English  and  American  readers. 
They  are  called:  The  Later  Life,  The  Twilight  of 
the  Souls  and  Dr.  Adriaan. 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS. 

CHELSEA, 
4  December,  1913. 


Small  Souls 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  pouring  with  rain;  and  Dorine  van  Lowe  was 
tired  out  when,  by  way  of  a  last  visit,  she  dropped 
in  on  Karel  and  Cateau  just  before  dinner.  But 
Dorine  was  pleased  with  herself.  She  had  gone  out 
immediately  after  lunch  and  had  trotted  and  trammed 
all  over  the  Hague ;  she  had  done  much,  if  not  every- 
thing; and  her  tired  face  looked  very  glad  and  her 
bright  black  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Have  meneer  and  mevrouw  gone  in  to  dinner 
yet,  Sientje?"  she  asked,  nervous  and  breathless,  in 
a  sudden  fright  lest  she  should  be  too  late. 

"  No,  miss,  but  it's  just  on  six,"  said  Sientje,  se- 
verely. 

Dorine  van  Lowe  whisked  through  the  hall  and 
rushed  upstairs,  forgetting  to  put  her  wet  umbrella 
in  the  stand.  She  clutched  it  in  one  hand,  together 
with  her  skirt,  which  she  forgot  to  let  fall;  in  her 
arm  she  held  a  parcel  pressed  close  to  her,  under 
her  cape ;  in  the  other  hand  she  carried  her  muff  and 
her  old  black  satin  reticule;  with  the  same  hand, 
making  a  superhuman  effort,  she  felt  for  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  and  managed  to  blow  her  nose  without 
dropping  anything  but  four  or  five  tram-tickets, 
which  flew  around  her  on  every  side. 

Old  Sientje  followed  her  with  her  glance,  severely. 
Then  she  went  to  the  kitchen,  fetched  a  cloth,  silently 
wiped  up  a  trail  of  rain  and  drops  along  the  hall  and 


2  SMALL  SOULS 

staircase  and  carefully  picked  the  tram-tickets  off  the 
stair-carpet. 

Dorine  walked  into  her  brother's  study.  Karel 
van  Lowe  was  sitting  placidly  by  a  good  fire,  reading ; 
his  smooth-shaven  face  shone  pink  and  young.  He 
wore  his  thick,  glossy  hair  neatly  combed  and  brushed 
into  a  fine  tuft;  he  dyed  his  moustache  black;  and, 
like  Dorine,  he  had  the  black  eyes  of  the  Van  Lowes. 
His  broad  figure  looked  comfortable  and  well-fed 
in  his  spruce  clothes;  his  waistcoat  lay  in  thick  creases 
over  his  stomach;  and  his  watch-chain  rose  and  fell 
with  his  regular  breathing.  He  seemed  calm  and 
healthy,  full  of  calculating  prudence  and  quiet  selfish- 
ness. He  gently  put  aside  the  magazine  which  he 
was  reading,  as  though  he  felt  that  he  was  in  for  it, 
that  he  would  have  to  listen  to  his  sister  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  at  least;  but  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
interrupt  her  pretty  often.  So  he  rubbed  his  large, 
fat,  pink  hands  and  looked  at  Dorine  impassively; 
and  his  glance  seemed  to  convey: 

"  Go  on,  I'm  listening,  I  can't  help  myself.  .  .  ." 

Dorine  stood  near  his  writing-table,  which  was  in 
the  middle  of  the  prim  room,  while  he  remained  sit- 
ting by  the  fire. 

"  I've  been  to  all  of  them !  "  Dorine  began  tri- 
umphantly. 

"To  Bertha?" 

"To  Bertha." 

"To  Gerrit?" 

"To  Gerrit." 

"To  Adolphine?" 


SMALL  SOULS  3 

"  And  to  Ernst  and  Paul :  I've  been  to  all  of 
them !  "  said  Dorine,  triumphantly.  "  And  they've 
all  promised  to  come." 

"  Dorine,  would  you  mind  putting  your  umbrella 
outside?  It's  so  wet." 

Dorine  put  her  umbrella  in  the  passage  outside  the 
door  and  she  now  also  let  fall  her  skirt,  the  hem  of 
which  showed  an  edge  of  wet  mud  at  which  her 
brother  kept  staring  as  though  hypnotized. 

"  And  what  did  Bertha  say?  "  he  asked,  pretend- 
ing to  be  interested,  but  giving  all  his  attention  to 
the  wet  hem. 

"  Well,  Bertha  was  very  nice !  I  must  say,  Bertha 
was  very  nice!  "  said  Dorine;  and  the  tears,  always 
so  ready  with  her,  came  into  her  dark  eyes.  "  She 
was  very  busy  with  the  girls,  drawing  up  the  lists  of 
invitations  for  Emilie's  wedding;  and  to-morrow 
they  have  one  of  their  official  dinners.  But  she  said 
at  once  that,  if  Mamma  wished  it,  we  must  all  of  us 
obey  her  wish  and  go  to  Mamma's  to-night  to  meet 
Constance.  And  Van  Naghel,  who  came  in  for  a 
moment,  said  so  too.  Bertha  never  agreed  with 
Mamma,  about  encouraging  Constance  to  come  back 
to  Holland;  but,  now  that  things  had  gone  as  far  as 
they  had,  she  said  she  would  look  upon  Constance  as 
a  sister  again,  quite  as  a  sister." 

"And  what  did  Van  Naghel  say?"  asked  Karel 
van  Lowe. 

Karel  was  not  really  interested  in  what  his  brother- 
in-law,  Van  Naghel  van  Voorde,  the  colonial  secre- 
tary, had  said,  but  he  had  a  methodical  mind  and, 


4  SMALL  SOULS 

now  that  he  knew  Bertha's  opinion,  he  also  wanted 
to  know  her  husband's  opinion  and  the  opinion  of 
all  the  other  brothers  and  sisters.  Meanwhile,  he 
continued  to  look  at  the  wet  hem  of  Dorine's  skirt 
and  longed  to  ask  her  not  to  touch  his  paper-knife 
and  paper-weight,  which  she  kept  playing  with  half- 
nervously;  but  he  said  nothing,  calculating  within 
himself  that,  presently,  when  Dorine  was  gone,  he 
would  have  a  moment,  before  dinner,  to  put  every- 
thing straight. 

"  Well,  I  gathered  from  what  Van  Naghel  said 
that  he  hoped  Constance  would  show  the  greatest 
tact  and  not  be  too  pushing  at  first,  but  that,  as  their 
brother-in-law,  he  would  welcome  Van  der  Welcke 
and  Constance  very  cordially." 

Karel  nodded  placidly,  to  show  that  he  understood 
what  lay  at  the  back  of  Van  Naghel's  words  and  that 
he  quite  agreed. 

"  And  what  did  Van  Saetzema  and  Adolphine 
say?" 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  had  more  trouble  with  Adol- 
phine than  with  any  of  the  others!  "  cried  Dorine, 
triumphantly  waving  the  paper-knife,  while  Karel 
anxiously  followed  the  movements  of  her  hand. 
"  First,  she  didn't  want  to  come  and  said  that 
Mamma  had  no  morals  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  answered  that  I  respected  her  views;  that,  of 
course,  every  one  was  free  to  think  as  he  pleased; 
but  that  she  must  not  forget  that  Mamma  was  an 
old  woman,  a  very  old  woman,  and  that  we  ought  to 
try  and  make  her  happy  in  her  old  age.  Then  I 


SMALL  SOULS  5 

said  that  Constance  was  Mamma's  child  as  much  as 
any  of  us;  and  that  it  was  only  natural  for  Mamma 
to  want  us  all  to  take  Constance  back  as  a  sister,  as 
it  had  all  happened  so  very  long  ago  and  she  had 
been  married  to  Van  der  Welcke  for  fifteen  years 
and  their  boy  is  thirteen  .  .  ." 

"  Dorine,  please,  would  you  mind  leaving  the  pa- 
per-weight alone?  Else  all  those  letters  are  sure 
to  get  mixed.  .  .  .  And  what  did  Adolphine  say 
to  that?" 

"  Well,  at  first,  Adolphine  wouldn't  hear  of  going, 
said  she  was  afraid  of  Constance'  bad  influence  on 
the  girls,  said  she  couldn't  possibly  take  them.  In 
fact,  she  talked  like  a  fool.  But,  when  I  told  her 
that  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  were  coming  and  that 
not  a  word  had  been  said  about  their  girls — that  they 
were  coming  too — then  Adolphine  said  that  she 
would  come  after  all  and  bring  her  girls.  And 
Gerrit  and  Ernst " — Dorine  opened  Karel's  stamp- 
box,  but  shut  it  again  at  once,  terrified  when  she  saw 
the  stamps  neatly  arranged  in  the  compartments,  ac- 
cording to  their  values — "  I  saw  Gerrit  and  Ernst 
too;  and  Adeline  spoke  very  nicely;  and  Paul  .  .  ." 

A  gong  sounded. 

;c  That's  dinner,"  said  Karel.  "  I  suppose  you 
won't  stay,  Dorine  ?  I  don't  think  there's  much : 
Cateau  and  I  always  dine  so  simply.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  eat  very  little;  I  should  like  to  stay,  if  I 
may;  then  we  can  all  go  on  to  Mamma's  after- 
wards. .  .  ." 

Karel  van  Lowe  gave  one  more  look  at  the  muddy 


6  SMALL  SOULS 

hem ;  he  remembered  that  the  dining-room  had  been 
cleaned  that  day;  and  he  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer : 

"  Dorine,"  he  said,  in  despair,  "  in  that  case,  won't 
you  let  Marie  brush  you  down  first?  " 

Then,  at  last,  Dorine  realized  that  she  was  not 
fit  to  be  seen,  after  trotting  and  tramming  the  whole 
afternoon  in  the  rain.  She  looked  in  the  glass: 
when  she  had  taken  off  her  wet  cape,  she  would  be 
less  presentable  than  ever.  And  so  she  dolefully 
changed  her  mind : 

'  You're  right,  Karel,  I  don't  look  nice;  and  my 
boots  are  wet:  I  think  I  had  better  go  home  and 
change  for  the  evening.  So  good-bye  for  the  pres- 
ent, Karel." 

"  Good-bye,  Dorine." 

The  gong  sounded  again.  Dorine  clutched  her 
reticule,  hunted  all  round  the  room  for  her  umbrella, 
until  she  remembered  that  it  was  outside,  and  hurried 
away,  while  Karel  repaired  the  disorder  on  his  writ- 
ing-table and  put  the  paper-weight  and  paper-knife 
straight. 

In  the  hall,  Dorine  met  her  round-faced  sister-in- 
law  staring  at  her  with  startled  eyes  like  an  owl's. 
Cateau  asked,  in  a  slow,  whining  voice  that  empha- 
sized every  third  or  fourth  word: 

"  Oh,  Do-rine  .  .  .  are  you  re-ally  .  .  .  stay- 
ing to  din-ner?  " 

"  No,  thanks,  Cateau;  it's  very  kind  of  you,  but  I 
must  change  my  things.  They're  all  coming  this 
evening,  to  Mamma's." 


SMALL  SOULS  7 

"  Oh,  are  they  all  ...  com-ing?  " 

"Yes.  ...  And  I  am  so  glad.  .  .  .  Well, 
don't  let  me  keep  you.  Karel  will  tell  you  all  about 
it.  So  good-bye,  till  later.  .  .  ." 

She  hurried  away;  Sientje  let  her  out,  severely. 

Karel  and  Cateau  sat  down  to  dinner.  They  had 
no  children;  they  were  now  living  in  the  Hague, 
after  many  years  spent  in  a  pretty  village  in  Utrecht, 
where  Karel  had  been  burgomaster.  They  had  a 
large  and  handsome  house  in  the  Oranjestraat;  they 
kept  three  servants;  they  kept  a  carriage.  They 
loved  good  fare  and  took  their  meals  by  themselves, 
just  the  two  of  them;  they  never  entertained:  there 
were  no  small  dinners,  for  relations,  nor  dinner-par- 
ties, for  friends.  They  lived  according  to  the  rules 
of  opulent  respectability.  Everything  in  their  large 
house,  with  its  heavy,  comfortable  furniture,  was 
solid  and  respectable,  in  no  wise  luxurious.  They 
both  looked  healthy  and  opulent  and  Dutch  and 
respectable.  Cateau  was  a  heavy  woman  of  forty, 
with  a  pair  of  startled  round  eyes  in  a  round  face, 
and  she  always  wore  a  neat,  smooth,  well-fitting 
dress,  brown,  black  or  blue.  They  lived  by  the 
clock:  in  the  morning,  Karel  took  a  walk,  always 
the  same  walk,  through  the  Woods;  after  lunch, 
Cateau  did  her  shopping;  once  a  week,  they  paid  a 
round  of  visits  together;  and  that  was  the  dnly  time 
when  they  went  out  together.  They  were  always 
at  home  in  the  evening,  except  on  Sundays,  when  they 
went  to  Mamma  van  Lowe's.  Notwithstanding 
their  comfortable  life,  their  three  servants  and  their 


8  SMALL  SOULS 

carriage,  they  were  thrifty.  They  considered  it  a 
sin  and  a  shame  to  spend  money  on  a  theatre,  an 
exhibition,  or  a  book.  Every  spring  and  autumn, 
they  bought  what  they  needed  for  their  house  and 
wardrobe,  so  as  to  have  everything  good  and  nice; 
but  that  was  all.  Their  one  vice  was  their  table. 
They  lived  exceedingly  well,  but  kept  the  fact  from 
the  family  and  always  said  that  they  lived  so  very 
simply  that  they  could  never  ask  an  unexpected  vis- 
itor to  stay.  And,  as  they  never  invited  anybody, 
the  secret  of  their  dainty  table  did  not  leak  out. 
They  had  a  first-rate  cook  and  Cateau  kept  a  tight 
rein  upon  her,  telling  her  that  meneer  was  so  par- 
ticular. But  they  both  feasted,  daily.  And,  at  their 
meals,  they  would  exchange  a  glance  of  intelligence, 
as  though  relishing  some  voluptuous  moment  of  mu- 
tual gratification,  because  everything  was  so  good. 
Softly  smacking  their  lips,  they  drank  a  good  glass 
of  good  red  wine.  And  then,  at  dessert,  Karel's 
face  beamed  fiery  red  and  Cateau  blinked  her  eyes, 
as  though  tickled  to  her  marrow.  Then  they  went 
into  the  sitting-room  and  sat  down  at  the  round 
table,  with  their  hands  folded  in  their  laps,  to  digest 
in  silence.  Karel,  for  appearance'  sake,  would  undo 
the  parcel  from  the  circulating  library.  Now  and 
again,  they  looked  at  each  other,  reflecting  compla- 
cently that  Anna  had  cooked  that  dinner  beautifully. 
But,  as  they  considered  that  this  enjoyment  was  sin- 
ful and,  above  all,  un-Dutch,  they  never  spoke  of 
their  enjoyment  and  enjoyed  in  silence. 

This  evening,  they  reckoned  out  that  they  had 


SMALL  SOULS  9 

quite  an  hour  left  in  which  to  digest  their  dinner 
by  the  big  stove ;  and,  as  they  did  not  like  Mamma's 
tea,  they  had  a  cup  of  tea  at  home.  At  eight  o'clock, 
Sientje  came  to  say  that  the  brougham  was  at  the 
door.  So  as  not  to  let  the  brougham  wait  longer 
than  necessary  in  the  rain  and  spoil,  they  got  up  at 
once,  put  on  cloak  and  great-coat  and  started.  They 
did  not  so  much  mind  if  the  horse  got  wet,  for  the 
horse  was  jobbed;  but  the  brougham  was  their  own. 


CHAPTER  II 

DORINE  VAN  LOWE  lived  by  herself  in  a  boarding- 
house,  though  old  Mrs.  van  Lowe  had  a  large  house 
in  the  Alexanderstraat.  Their  friends  all  thought 
this  odd;  and  Dorine  was  a  little  perplexed  at  having 
constantly  to  explain  that  she  would  have  liked 
nothing  better  than  to  live  with  Mamma  and  keep 
house  for  Mamma  and  look  after  Mamma  and  spoil 
Mamma.  But,  as  a  girl  of  twenty-two,  she  had  left 
home  to  become  a  nurse;  and,  when  she  found  that 
she  had  mistaken  her  vocation,  Mamma  had  re- 
fused to  let  her  come  back.  But  surely,  Mamma, 
who  was  so  fond  of  gathering  all  her  children  round 
her,  the  friends  would  say.  Yes,  that  was  so,  said 
Dorine:  Mamma  doted  on  her  brood;  and  yet  she 
preferred  to  be  alone  in  her  big  house,  she  preferred 
to  do  her  housekeeping  herself  and  did  not  care  to 
have  any  one  staying  with  her  or  fussing  about  her. 
.  .  .  No,  it  was  better  that  Dorine  should  stop 
in  her  boarding-house.  Mamma  was  still  so  active, 
saw  to  everything,  knew  about  everything.  Dorine 
would  have  been  of  no  use  to  her  at  home.  .  .  . 
Besides,  Mamma  herself  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and 
used  to  say,  laughingly,  but  quite  in  earnest: 
'  Those  who  go  away  can  stay  away.  .  .  ." 
And  the  Van  Lowes'  friends  thought  it  odd,  for 
the  old  lady  was  known  for  just  that  motherly  qual- 
ity of  hers,  for  loving  to  keep  all  her  children  round 


SMALL  SOULS  n 

her,  in  a  close  family-circle,  at  the  Hague  or  in  the. 
immediate  neighbourhood.  And  she  did  not  look 
at  all  a  difficult  old  lady,  with  her  gentle,  refined  old 
face  of  a  waxy  pallor  and  her  smooth  grey  hair; 
not  at  all  a  managing  old  dame  who  could  not  pos- 
sibly live  in  the  same  house  with  her  unmarried 
daughter.  And  so  Dorine  was  always  a  little  per- 
plexed at  having  to  explain,  especially  as  she  her- 
self thought  it  odd  of  Mamma.  But  Mamma  was 
what  she  was;  and  it  couldn't  be  helped.  .  .  . 

Dorine  felt  less  tired  after  she  had  had  some  din- 
ner and  changed  her  clothes;  and  she  put  on  her 
goloshes  and  went  on  to  Mamma's  at  once.  The 
rawness  of  the  March  evening  bore  down  on  the 
deserted  Javastraat  with  a  shudder  of  dripping  fog. 
It  had  rained  all  day;  and  now  the  heavy  grey  sky 
was  blotted  from  sight  in  a  mist  that  clung  in  masses 
of  woolly  dampness  to  the  roofs  and  tree-tops;  the 
wind  whistled  from  the  north-west  and  skimmed 
over  the  rippling  puddles ;  the  trees  dripped  as  heav- 
ily as  though  it  were  still  raining;  and  the  pale-yel- 
low light  in  the  clouded  street-lamps  shimmered 
down  upon  the  street.  Hardly  any  one  was  out  of 
doors  so  early  after  dinner;  a  man,  carrying  a  par- 
cel, left  a  shop  and  shuffled  close  to  the  houses,  with 
wide,  hurrying  legs. 

Dorine  tripped  across  the  puddles  in  her  goloshes, 
hugging  herself  in  her  old-fashioned,  long  fur  cloak. 
And  she  talked  to  herself  and  muttered  out  loud. 
She  grumbled  at  the  rain,  grumbled  at  all  the  trouble 


12  SMALL  SOULS 

which  Mamma  had  given  her  that  day,  sending  her 
to  all  the  brothers  and  sisters,  for  Constance'  sake. 
.  .  .  And  you'd  see,  Constance  wouldn't  even  be 
grateful  to  her,  Constance  would  think  it  only  nat- 
ural. .  .  .  Every  one  always  thought  it  only  nat- 
ural, that  Dorine  should  run  about  for  the  family; 
and  no  one  was  ever  really  grateful.  .  .  .  Every 
one  was  selfish,  Mamma  included.  .  .  .  Well,  she 
would  try  it  herself  one  day,  being  selfish  .  .  .  and 
sit  all  day  long  by  her  fire,  as  Karel  always  did  .  .  . 
and  live  only  for  herself,  for  her  own  pleasure  .  .  . 
and  leave  them  all  to  their  fate.  .  .  .  Just  imagine, 
supposing,  to-morrow,  she  were  to  say  to  Bertha 
and  Adolphine,  whose  girls  were  soon  to  be  mar- 
ried, that  she  had  no  time  to  go  on  everybody's  er- 
rands. ...  It  was  always  Dorine:  Dorine  could 
do  it  all;  Dorine  didn't  mind  the  rain;  Dorine  had 
to  be  in  the  Veenestraat  anyhow.  .  .  .  Running 
about,  running  about,  running  about,  without  stop- 
ping, all  out  of  sheer,  silly  good-nature;  and  who 
thanked  her  for  it?  Nobody!  Not  Mamma,  nor 
Bertha,  nor  Adolphine.  ...  It  was  all  taken  as 
a  matter  of  course!  Well,  she  would  like  to  see 
their  faces  to-morrow,  if  she  said,  "  I've  no  time, 
you  know; "  or  "  I'm  staying  at  home  to-day;  "  or, 
"I'm  feeling  rather  tired."  Dorine  feeling  tired! 
What  next! 

Still  grumbling,  she  rang  the  bell  at  Mamma's, 
in  the  Alexanderstraat;  she  took  off  her  things  in 
the  hall.  And  now  she  emerged  from  her  long 
cloak,  a  lean  and  wiry  little  woman  of  thirty-five, 


SMALL  SOULS  13 

with  a  thin  and  sallow  face,  her  breast  shrunk  within 
a  painfully  tight,  dark-silk  blouse;  her  dull,  mud- 
coloured  hair  drawn  tightly  from  her  forehead  into 
a  knot  at  the  back;  very  thin,  with  no  hips,  with  not 
a  single  rounded  line  and  with  those  dark  eyes  of 
the  Van  Lowes,  which  in  her  were  bright  and  in- 
telligent, but  with  an  odd  sort  of  silent  reproach  and 
secret  discontent  at  the  back  of  them,  as  though 
brooding  under  her  glance.  Withal  she  had  re- 
tained something  very  young  and  girlish,  something 
innocent  and  gay  and  lively.  While  pulling  off  her 
gloves,  she  spoke  pleasantly  to  the  servant,  made 
a  playful  remark  about  the  wet  weather.  She  felt 
her  hair,  to  see  if  it  was  smooth  and  drawn  back 
properly,  and  tripped  up  the  stairs  with  a  swinging 
gait,  her  shoulders  bobbing  up  and  down,  her  legs 
wide  apart.  There  was  now  something  quite  young 
and  unconstrained  in  that  gay  liveliness  of  hers. 

She  found  Mamma  upstairs,  in  the  double  draw- 
ing-room, where  Klaartje  was  lighting  the  gas: 

"  They're  all  coming,  Mamma !  "  Dorine  blurted 
out. 

Then,  starting  when  she  saw  the  servant,  she 
whispered : 

"  I've  been  to  all  of  them;  first  to  Karel,  then  to 
Bertha,  then  to  Adolphine;  no,  first  to  Gerrit  .  .  ." 

She  became  muddled,  laughed,  made  Mamma  sit 
down  beside  her  and  told  her  what  all  the  brothers 
and  sisters  had  said.  The  old  woman's  face  beamed 
with  satisfaction.  She  kissed  Dorine : 

"  You're  a  dear  girl,  Dorinetje,"  she  said,  with 


i4  SMALL  SOULS 

the  mothierly  voice  which  she  used  when  speaking 
to  any  of  her  children — even  to  Bertha,  who  was 
fifty — and  which  she  had  never  learnt  to  give  up. 
u  You're  a.  dear  girl  to  have  taken  so  much  trouble. 
And  it's  very  nice  of  all  the  others  to  come  to-night, 
for  I  know  it  means  a  great  effort  to  some  of  them 
to  forgive  and  forget  and  to  take  back  Constance 
as  a  sister.  And  I  appreciate  it  all  the  more.  .  .  ." 
Mrs.  van  Lowe  said  this  in  a  tone  of  approval, 
but  a  little  autocratically,  as  though  she  granted  her 
children  a  right  to  their  own  opinion  but  yet  thought 
it  only  natural  that  they  should  obey  their  mother's 
wish.  And  she  and  Dorine  watched  the  servants 
putting  out  the  card-tables:  one  in  the  big  drawing- 
room,  one  in  the  second  drawing-room  and  one  in 
the  boudoir.  It  was  the  sacred  Sunday,  the  evening 
of  the  "  -family-group,"  as  the  grandchildren  naught- 
ily called  it  among  themselves.  Every  Sunday, 
Mamma  collected  as  many  Van  Lowes,  Ruyvenaers, 
Van  Naghels  and  Saetzemas  as  she  could,  minding 
the  name  less  than  whether  they  were  relations,  even 
though  they  were  only  relations  of  relations.  It 
was  all  brother  and  sister,  uncle  and  aunt,  cousin 
and  cousin.  Years  ago,  the  Van  Lowes — Papa,  the 
retired  governor-general,  and  Mamma — had  insti- 
tuted that  Sunday  gathering  of  the  members  of  the 
family  who  happened  to  be  at  the  Hague;  and  they 
had  all,  as  far  as  possible,  kept  themselves  free  on 
Sunday  evenings  to  come  to  the  "  family-group." 
This  very  regularity  bore  witness  to  the  close  bonds 
connecting  the  several  families.  Uncle  Ruyvenaer 


SMALL  SOULS  15 

could  not  remember  missing  a  single  Sunday  evening, 
except  when  he  ran  over  to  Java,  on  a  six  months' 
return-ticket,  to  see  how  the  sugar-factory  was  going 
on. 

The  Ruyvenaers  were  first,  as  usual,  arriving  very 
early  and  at  once  filling  the  rooms.  Uncle,  with  a 
shiver,  abused  the  Dutch  climate:  he  was  tall  and 
stout,  wearisome  with  his  noisy  attempts  at  humour, 
full  of  a  superficial  good-nature  and  an  affectation  of 
kind-heartedness.  He  was  always  blundering  out 
things  that  fell  like  a  sledge-hammer.  He  at  once 
filled  the  whole  room  with  his  blustering  joviality, 
his  ponderous  efforts  to  make  himself  agreeable. 
His  sister,  Mrs.  van  Lowe,  so  gentle,  so  distin- 
guished, was  always  afraid  that  he  would  break 
something.  Auntie  was  a  rich  nonna,1  who  had 
brought  the  sugar-factory  as  her  dowry:  she  too 
was  heavy  and  fat,  like  a  Hindu  idol,  and  covered 
with  big  diamonds;  still,  there  was  something  kind 
and  friendly  about  her:  looking  at  her,  you  had  a 
vision  of  a  spicy  rice-table 2  and  toothsome  kwee- 
kwee;  3  a  promise  of  material  comfort,  of  a  lavish 
supply  of  good  things  to  eat  and  drink.  And,  with 
it  all,  she  was  not  unsympathetic,  with  her  soft,  dark 
eyes.  They  brought  with  them  their  three  daugh- 
ters and  two  sons:  the  two  elder  girls  of  Dorine's 
age>  gay  and  boisterous,  regular  natives;  a  son  of 
twenty-eight,  who  was  also  in  the  sugar-business, 

*A  half-caste. 

2  The  lunch  or  tiffin  of  the  Dutch  East  Indies,  consisting  of  rice 
with  a  great  variety  of  spiced  meats  and  vegetables. 
s  Cakes. 


16  SMALL  SOULS 

when  in  Java;  a -third  daughter,  a  couple  of  years 
younger;  and  the  youngest  son,  a  little  brown  fellow, 
fifteen  years  old,  very  short  and  thin,  who  seemed 
to  have  come  much  later,  by  accident.  All  the  Van 
Lowes — though  Mamma  was  born  in  India  and 
Papa  had  made  his  way  there  until  he  reached  the 
highest  office  of  all — were  ultra-Dutch  and  always 
laughed  a  little  at  the  Ruyvenaers,  while  cheerfully 
resigning  themselves  to  the  Indian  strain,  which 
shocked  them  a  bit,  made  them  a  trifle  uncomfortable 
in  the  presence  of  their  purely  Dutch  friends  and 
connections.  Still,  the  old  lady,  whose  family- 
affection  was  very  strong,  declared  that  they  were 
in  their  right  place  there,  even  though  Uncle  Ruy- 
venaer  was  only  her  half-brother  and  Auntie  very 
Indian;  for  Mamma  van  Lowe  carried  her  family- 
pride  to  the  point  of  maintaining  that  all  that  formed 
part  of  the  family  was  good.  To  be  related  to  the 
Van  Lowes  seemed,  in  a  sense,  to  ennoble,  to  exalt, 
to  improve  the  very  stock.  And  so  she  always 
looked  severe  when  her  children — Gerrit,  Adolphine 
and  Paul — laughed  at  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  and  the  In- 
dian nieces,  who  were  good  children,  always  cheer- 
ful, always  amiable,  bright  and  pleasant. 

Uncle  was  very  noisy,  strode  up  and  down  the 
rooms,  with  straddling  legs,  to  warm  himself: 

"  So  we  shall  see  Constance  here  to-night?  Well, 
it's  a  long  time  since  we  did.  Let  me  see :  how  long 
is  it?  How  long  is  it,  Marie?  Twenty  years? 
Yes,  it  must  be  twenty  years!  At  least,  I  haven't 
seen  her  since  she  married  De  Staffelaer!  Lord, 


SMALL  SOULS  17 

what  a  sweet  child  she  was!  What  a  sweet,  pretty 
child!  Twenty  years  ago:  why,  it's  an  age!  She 
must  have  grown  old!  Yes,  of  course  she  must: 
she  must  have  grown  old!  How  old  is  she?  It's 
easy  to  reckon:  she  must  be  forty-two,  eh?  And 
Van  der  Welcke  is  a  nice  fellow,  what?  Very  de 
cent  of  him,  I'm  bound  to  say,  very  decent.  .  .  ." 

Mamma  van  Lowe  turned  very  white;  Dorine 
gave  an  angry  look;  Toetie  Ruyvenaer  pulled  Papa's 
sleeve : 

"  Allah*  that  Papa !  "  she  whispered,  good-na- 
turedly, to  her  sister  Dotje.  "  No  tact.  .  .  ." 

"  Ye-es,"  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  began  in  a  fat,  slow 
voice,  "  was  it  so  long  ago?  Kassian!  "  5  she  added, 
sympathetically.  "  Poor  Constance !  I'm  so  glad 
I'm  going  to  see  her  I  " 

"  Papa !  "  said  Poppie  Ruyvenaer,  the  youngest. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  How  can  you?  " 

"What?" 

"  You're  upsetting  Aunt  Marie:  don't  you  see?" 

"  But,  good  Lord.  .  .    !  " 

"  Oh,  do  stop  about  Constance." 

"What  have  I  said?  .  .  ." 

"  If  you  don't  stop,  you'll  make  Aunt  Marie  cry. 
Don't  you  understand?  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  mustn't  I  talk  about  Constance?  There's 
always  something  in  our  family  one  mustn't  talk 
about.  .  .  .  It's  beyond  rhe !  " 

And  Uncle  began  to   stride  up   and   down   the 

4  Lord  I  6Poor  dear! 


i8  SMALL  SOULS 

rooms  again,  rubbing  his  hands,  which  were  still 
cold. 

Two  very  old  aunts  entered.  They  were  the  Miss 
Ruyvenaers,  very  old  ladies,  turned  eighty  and  look- 
ing more  than  that,  unmarried  sisters  of  Uncle  and 
of  Mrs.  van  Lowe.  Their  names  were  Dorine  and 
Christine;  but  the  younger  generations  called  them 
Auntie  Rine  and  Auntie  Tine: 

"  So  nice  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  van  Lowe.  "  So 
nice.  .  .  ." 

"  What?  "  asked  Auntie  Rine. 

"  So  nice  of  you,  Dorine !  "  screamed  Mrs.  van 
Lowe  in  her  ear. 

"  Marie  says,"  screamed  Auntie  Tine,  "  it's  so 
nice  of  you  ...  to  come  to-night.  .  .  .  Dorine  is 
so  deaf,  Marie.  .  .  .  Really,  she's  getting  unbear- 
able. .  .  ." 

Auntie  Tine  was  the  young  one,  the  tetchy  one, 
the  bitter  one;  Auntie  Rine  was  the  older  one,  the 
good-natured,  deaf  one.  Outwardly,  the  two  old 
ladies  resembled  each  other  and  looked  like  old 
prints  in  their  antiquated  dresses;  they  wore  black 
lace  caps  on  the  grey  hair  that  framed  their  faces, 
which  were  wrinkled  like  a  walnut. 

The  old  ladies  went  and  sat  far  apart;  and  it  was 
strange  to  see  them  sitting  at  either  end  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, quietly,  watching  attentively,  not  saying 
much.  .  .  . 

Now  the  others  came,  gradually.  The  first  to 
arrive  were  the  Van  Saetzemas :  Adolphine,  her  hus- 


SMALL  SOULS  19 

band,  Floortje,  Caroline,  Marietje  and  three  noisy 
boys,  all  younger  than  their  sisters ;  next  came  Gerrit 
and  his  wife  Adeline:  their  children  were  still  in 
the  nursery;  next,  Karel  and  Cateau,  still  digesting 
their  good  dinner  and  their  good  wine;  Ernst  en- 
tered, gloomy,  timid,  queer  and  shy,  as  usual;  Paul 
followed:  he  was  the  youngest  son,  thirty-five,  good- 
looking,  fair-haired  and  excessively  well-dressed; 
last  came  the  Van  Naghels,  Bertha  and  her  husband, 
the  colonial  secretary,  with  their  children:  the  three 
elder  girls,  Louise,  Emilie,  with  Van  Raven,  her 
future  husband,  and  Marianne;  young  Karel;  and 
another  Marietje:  the  two  undergraduates  were 
away,  this  time,  at  Leiden.  There  was  a  general 
humming  and  buzzing:  the  uncles,  aunts,  nephews 
and  nieces  exchanged  greetings;  many  of  them  had 
not  seen  one  another  all  the  week;  but  they  made  it 
a  rule  to  meet  at  Mamma's  Sundays.  And  this 
evening  there  was  great  excitement  among  them  all, 
though  they  restrained  it  for  Mamma's  sake:  a  mu- 
tual whispering  and  asking  of  opinions,  because  Con- 
stance was  returning  to  the  Hague,  to  her  family, 
after  twenty  years'  absence. 

Adolphine  overwhelmed  her  eldest  sister,  Bertha 
van  Naghel  van  Voorde,  with  a  torrent  of  whispered 
words: 

"  It's  Mamma's  wish,"  said  Bertha,  laconically, 
blinking  her  eyes. 

"  But  what  do  you  think?  What  does  Van  Nag- 
hel think?  You  surely  can't  think  it  pleasant.  .  .  ." 


20  SMALL  SOULS 

"  Constance  is  our  sister.  .  .  ." 

"  Our  sister,  our  sister !  If  my  sister  misconducts 
herself.  .  .  ." 

"  Adolphine,  Constance  has  been  married  to  Van 
der  Welcke  for  fourteen  years;  and  there  comes  a 
time  when  one  overlooks.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Will  you  have 
her  at  your  house?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

Adolphine  had  it  at  the  tip  of  her  jealous  tongue 
to  say,  "  And  I  suppose  you'll  ask  her  to  your  big 
dinners,"  but  she  restrained  herself. 

The  younger  nephews  and  nieces  were  also  busily 
talking : 

"  Isn't  she  here  yet?" 

"  No,  she's  coming  later." 

"Is  she  old?" 

"  She's  between  Uncle  Gerrit  and  Aunt  Adol- 
phine. .  .  ." 

"How  nervous  Grandmamma  is!" 

"  Oh,  she  doesn't  strike  me  so !  .  .  ." 

"Why  is  she  so  late?" 

"  To  make  a  triumphal  entry.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  triumphal !  "  said  Floortje,  Adolphine's 
daughter.  "  That  would  be  the  finishing 
touch!" 

"There  she  is!" 

"  Yes,  I  hear  some  one  on  the  stairs." 

"  Granny's  gone  outside  to  meet  her." 

"  And  Aunt  Dorine,  too." 

"  I'm  awfully  curious  to.  .  .  ." 


SMALL  SOULS  21 

"  Yes,  but  we  mustn't  stare  like  that,"  said  Mari- 
anne van  Naghel  to  the  boys. 

"Why  shouldn't  I,  if  I  want  to?"  asked  Piet 
Saetzema. 

"  Because  it's  ill-bred,"  said  Marianne,   angrily. 

"  Oh,  indeed?     It's  you  that's  ill-bred." 

"  And  your  a  boor!  "  cried  Marianne,  losing  her 
temper. 

"  Marianne !  "  said  her  sister  Emilie,  soothingly. 

"It's  those  horrid  boys  of  Aunt  Adolphine's  1  " 
muttered  Marianne,  in  her  indignation. 

"  Then  don't  take  any  notice  of  them." 

"  Here  comes  Aunt  Constance.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  van  Lowe  had  gone  to  meet  her  daughter 
in  the  passage;  she  embraced  her  there.  The  door 
was  open;  the  brothers,  sisters,  nephews,  nieces 
looked  out  and  at  once  began  to  talk  busily  to  one 
another,  in  artificial  tones.  Then  Mamma  came  in, 
leading  Constance  by  the  hand.  On  her  face  was 
a  smile  of  quiet  content,  but  she  was  trembling  with 
nervousness.  She  remained  standing  for  a  moment, 
looking' through  the  crowded  room.  Constance  van 
der  Welcke,  holding  her  mother's  hand,  also  stopped. 
She  was  still  a  pretty  woman,  very  pale,  with  hair 
beginning  to  go  grey  around  her  young  and  charm- 
ing face,  in  which  the  dark  eyes  loomed  big  with 
anxiety;  she  still  had  the  figure  of  a  young  woman; 
and  she  wore  a  black-satin  gown.  .  .  .  There  was 
a  wait  of  a  few  seconds  at  the  door,  a  pause  just 
perceptible,  yet  poignant,  as  though  a  stubborn  situ- 
ation were  being  forced  into  the  easier  groove  of 


22  SMALL  SOULS 

polite  manners  and  kind  words,  because  of  this  sis- 
ter's home-coming.  But  then  Bertha  came  up  and 
smiled,  and  found  the  kind  word  and  the  polite 
manner.  She  kissed  her  younger  sister,  said  some- 
thing charming.  Mrs.  van  Lowe  beamed.  The 
other  sisters  and  brothers  followed,  the  nephews, 
the  nieces.  At  last,  one  by  one,  they  had  all  wel- 
comed her.  Constance  had  kissed  them,  or  shaken 
hands;  and  she  was  deathly  pale;  and  her  black  eyes 
trembled,  misty  with  tears.  Her  voice  broke,  her 
hands  shook,  she  felt  a  sinking  at  her  knees.  A  pas- 
sion of  weeping  was  rising  to  her  eyes;  and  she  found 
it  almost  impossible  to  control  herself.  She  kept 
hold  of  her  mother's  hand,  like  a  child,  sat  down 
by  her,  tried  to  smile  and  to  behave  normally.  Her 
words  almost  choked  her;  her  breath  throttled  her. 
Her  black  eyes  started  from  their  sockets,  quivering, 
in  her  deathly-pale  face,  and  she  shivered  as  though 
in  a  fever.  She  tried  to  do  her  best,  to  talk  as 
though  she  had  only  been  away  a  year.  But  it  was 
no  use.  She  had  not  set  foot  in  those  rooms  since 
the  day,  twenty  years  ago,  when  she  married  De 
Staffelaer,  the  Dutch  envoy  at  Rome.  .  .  .  Since 
then,  so  much  had  happened  in  Rome,  oh,  so  much! 
Her  life  had  happened,  her  life  of  mistake  upon 
mistake.  How  could  she  talk  the  usual  common- 
places now?  She  saw  herself  here,  twenty  years 
ago,  coming  back  from  church,  in  her  white  bridal 
dress;  she  saw  her  father,  now  dead;  she  saw  De 
Staffelaer;  she  saw  herself,  after  she  had  changed 
into  her  travelling-dress,  saying  good-bye,  going 


SMALL  SOULS  23 

away  with  De  Staffelaer.  .  .  .  Since  then  .  .  . 
since  then,  she  had  never  been  back!  Since  then, 
her  father  had  died!  Since  then,  she  had  only 
twice  seen  her  dear  mother,  for  a  moment,  at  Brus- 
sels. Oh,  since  then!  .  .  .  Since  then,  all  her 
brothers  and  sisters  had  become  strangers  to  her; 
and  she  herself  had  been  a  stranger,  never  in  Hol- 
land, always  abroad,  always  an  alien.  .  .  .  Now 
.  .  .  now  she  was  back!  Was  it  possible?  Was 
it  a  dream?  .  .  . 

Her  brother-in-law,  Van  Naghel,  the  cabinet- 
minister,  came  up  to  her: 

;'  We  are  very  glad  to  see  you  at  the  Hague,  Con- 
stance." 

"  Thank  you,  Van  Naghel." 

"  And  shall  we  soon  be  making  Van  der  Welcke's 
acquaintance?  " 

There  was  something  in  his  words  as  though  he 
were  forcing  the  situation,  for  Mamma  van  Lowe's 
sake. 

"  He  has  some  business,  to  settle  in  Brussels.  He 
will  be  here  in  a  week." 

It  was  very  difficult  to  keep  up  the  conversation; 
and  he  was  silent. 

"So  one  of  your  girl's  is  engaged?"  she  asked, 
tactfully  diverting  the  talk  from  herself. 

"Yes,  Emilie,  the  second.     Emilie!" 

He  beckoned  to  his  daughter.  Emilie  came  up, 
bringing  Van  Raven  with  her: 

"  May  I  introduce  Mr.  van  Raven,  Aunt  Con- 
stance ?  " 


24  SMALL  SOUL.S 

11  Van  Raven."  And  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  My  best  wishes  for  your  happiness,  Emilie." 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt." 

"  And  there's  another  wedding  in  prospect,"  said 
Mamma.  "  Floortje  and  Dijkerhof.  .  .  ." 

And  she  beckoned  to  Floortje,  who  introduced 
Dijkerhof. 

Meanwhile,  the  members  of  the  family  tried  to 
behave  as  usual.  They  talked  together,  as  though 
in  ordinary  conversation.  Uncle  Ruyvenaer  ar- 
ranged the  parties  at  the  card-tables : 

"  Karel,  Toetie,  Louise,  Gerrit.  .  .  .  Bertha, 
Cateau,  Van  Saetzema,  Ernst.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  marshalled  the  troops.  The  younger 
generation  were  put  to  play  round  games  at  a  long 
table  in  the  conservatory. 

Constance  gave  a  soft  laugh: 

"  What  a  lot  of  us  there  are,  Mamma,  at  your 
Sundays !  " 

What  a  lot  of  us:  the  word  had  a  special  charm 
for  her. 

Meanwhile,  Uncle  Ruyvenaer  was  teasing  his  two 
old  sisters: 

"  Come  Rientje  and  Tientje.  .  .  .  Don't  you 
want  to  play  bridge?" 

"What?" 

"  Herman  wants  to  know  if  you're  going  to  play 
bridge?"  screamed  Auntie  Tine  in  Auntie  Rine's 
ear. 

"Bridge?" 


SMALL  SOULS  25 

"  Yes,  if  you  want  to  play  bridge  ?  She  is  so 
deaf,  Herman!  .  .  ." 

"  They  won't  remember  me,"  said  Constance, 
speaking  of  the  old  aunts.  '  They  must  have  for- 
gotten me  in  these  twenty  years.  How  old  they 
have  grown,  Mamma!  .  .  .  How  old  we  have  all 
grown!  Bertha  is  grey.  I  am  going  grey  myself. 
.  .  .  And  all  those  little  nieces,  all  those  young 
nephews  whom  I  have  never  seen.  .  .  .  Do  they 
always  come,  on  Sundays?" 

"  Yes,  child,  every  Sunday.  There's  a  great  kind- 
ness and  affection  among  them  all.  I  always  think 
that  so  delightful." 

"  We  are  a  large  family.  I  am  glad  to  be  here, 
but  they  are  still  like  strangers  to  me.  How  many 
of  us  are  there  here,  Mamma?  " 

"  Oh,  quite  thirty !  Let  me  see.  .  .  ."  Mamma 
van  Lowe  counted  on  her  fingers.  "  Uncle  and 
Aunt  Ruyvenaer,  with  Toetie  and  Dot  and  Poppie 
and  Piet  and  young  Herman:  that  makes  seven; 
then,  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha,  with  the  four  girls 
and  Karel:  that's  seven  more;  fourteen.  .  .  ." 

Constance  listened  to  her  mother's  addition,  and 
smiled.  .  .  .  Twenty  years,  twenty  years  ago ! 
She  felt  as  though  she  could  have  burst  out  sobbing; 
but  she  controlled  herself,  smiled,  stroked  Mamma's 
hand: 

"  Mamma,  dear  Mamma.  ...  I  am  so  glad  to 
be  back  among  you  all!  " 

"Dear  child!" 


26  '     SMALL  SOULS 

"  They  have  all  received  me  so  nicely.  So  sim- 
ply." 

"  Why,  of  course,  Connie.  You're  their  sis- 
ter." 

Constance  was  silent.  .  .  .  Dorine,  with  two  of 
the  young  nieces,  poured  out  the  tea,  brought  it 
round: 

"Have  a  cup,  Constance?     Milk?     Sugar?" 

How  familiar  and  pleasant  it  sounded,  just  as 
though  she  were  really  one  of  them,  as  though  she 
always  had  been  one  of  them :  "  Have  a  cup,  Con- 
stance?" ...  As  if  it  wasn't  the  first  cup  of  tea 
she  had  had  there  for  years  and  years !  .  .  .  Dear 
Dorine!  Constance  remembered  her  as  a  girl  of 
seventeen,  shy,  not  yet  out,  but  even  then  caring, 
always  caring,  for  others.  She  was  not  pretty, 
she  was  even  plain,  ungraceful,  clumsy,  badly- 
dressed.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  Dorine,  I  should  like  a  cup.  .  .  .  Come 
here,  Dorine.  Sit  down  and  talk  to  me:  the  girls 
can  see  to  the  tea." 

She  drew  Dorine  to  the  sofa  beside  her  and  nestled 
between  her  mother  and  her  sister : 

'  Tell  me,  Dorine,  do  you  still  look  after  every- 
body so  well?  Do  you  still  pour  the  tea?  " 

Her  voice  had  a  broken  sound,  full  of  a  mel- 
ancholy that  permeated  her  simple,  bantering  words. 
Dcrine  made  some  vague  reply. 

'  When  I  went  away,"  said  Constance,  "  you  were 
not  seventeen.  You  were  always  cutting  bread-aod- 
butter  for  Bertha's  children.  Otto  and  Louise  were 


SMALL  SOULS  27 

seven  and  five  then;  Emilie  was  a  baby.     Now  she's 
engaged.  .  .   ." 

She  smiled,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  her 
breast  heaved. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  It's  a  long  time  ago,  Connie,"  said  Dorine. 

It  was  twenty  years  since  any  one  had  called  her 
Connie. 

"  So  you're  thirty-six  now,  Dorine?" 

"  Yes,  Connie,  thirty-six,"  said  Dorine,  uncom- 
fortable, as  usual,  when  anybody  spoke  of  her;  and 
she  felt  her  smooth,  flat  hair,  to  see  if  it  was  drawn 
well  back. 

"  You've  changed  very  little,  Dorine." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Connie?" 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  ...  Will  you  like  me 
a  little,  Dorine?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  Connie." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  old  lady,  much  moved. 

They  were  all  three  silent  for  a  while.  Con- 
stance felt  so  much,  was  so  full  of  the  past  years, 
that  she  could  not  have  uttered  another  word. 

"  Why  didn't  you  bring  Addie?  "  asked  Mamma. 

"  I  thought  he  might  be  too  young." 

"The  two  Marietjes  always  come;  and  so  do 
Adolphine's  boys.  We  never  sit  up  late,  because 
of  the  children." 

'  Then  I'll  bring  him  next  time,  Mamma." 

Dorine  stole  a  glance  at  her  sister  and  reflected 
that  Constance  was  still  pretty,  for  a  woman  of  forty- 
two.  What  a  young  and  pretty  figure,  thought 


28  SMALL  SOULS 

Dorine;  but  then  it  was  a  smart  dress;  and  Con- 
stance was  sure  to  wear  very  expensive  stays.  Reg- 
ular features :  she  was  like  Mamma ;  a  clear-cut  pro- 
file; dark  eyes,  now  dimmed  with  melancholy;  very 
pretty,  white  hands,  with  rings;  and  her  hair  espe- 
cially interested  Dorine:  it  was  turning  into  a  uni- 
form steel-grey  and  it  curled. 

"  Connie,  does  your  hair  curl  of  itself?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  Dorine;  I  wave  it." 

"What  a  labour!" 

Constance  gave  a  careless  laugh. 

"  Constance  always  had  nice  hair,"  said  Mamma, 
proudly. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mamma  dear!  I  have  horrid,  straight 
hair." 

They  were  silent  again;  and  all  three  of  them  felt 
that  they  were  not  speaking  of  what  lay  at  their 
hearts. 

"  Constance,  what  lovely  rings  you  have !  " 

"  Ah,  Dorine,  I  remember  you  used  to  admire  me 
in  the  old  days;  when  I  went  to  a  ball,  you  used  to 
stand  and  gaze  at  me.  But  there  is  nothing  left  to 
admire,  Dorine:  I'm  an  old  stick,  now.  .  .  ." 

"  My  dear!  "  said  Mamma,  indignantly. 

"You  needn't  mind,  Mamma:  you're  always 
young,  a  young  grandmamma.  .  .  ." 

And  she  pressed  Mamma's  hand,  with  a  touching 
fervour. 


CHAPTER  III 

"  DORINE,"  asked  Constance,  "  where  is  Papa's  por- 
trait?" 

"  In  the  boudoir." 

"  Oh,  so  Mamma  has  moved  it  I  I  want  to  see 
it." 

She  went  with  Dorine  through  the  drawing-room, 
past  the  card-tables.  .  .  .  She  noticed  that  the  con- 
versation at  once  stopped  at  the  table  where  Adol- 
phine  and  Uncle  Ruyvenaer  were  playing  and  that 
her  sister  raised  her  voice  and  said: 

"Did  I  deal?  .  .  .     Diamonds!" 

"  They  were  talking  about  me,"  thought  Con- 
stance. 

She  went  into  the  boudoir  with  Dorine:  there  was 
a  card-table,  with  cards  and  markers,  but  there  was 
no  one  in  the  room.  Decanters  and  glasses,  sand- 
wiches and  cakes  had  been  put  out  in  readiness  for 
later. 

"  Papa,"  said  Constance,  softly. 

She  looked  up  at  the  big  portrait.  It  was  not  a 
work  of  art;  it  was  painted  in  the  regulation,  wooden 
style  of  thirty  or  forty  years  before;  and  it  struck 
Constance  as  an  ugly  daub,  dark  and  flat,  in  spite 
of  all  the  gold  on  the  governor-general's  uniform, 
all  the  stars  of  the  orders.  The  portrait  represented 
a  tall  and  commanding  man,  with  a  hard  face  and 
dark,  stony  eyes. 

29 


30  SMALL  SOULS 

"  I  ...  I  used  to  think  that  portrait  much  finer," 
said  Constance.  '  Was  Papa  so  hard?  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  were  riveted  on  her  father's  face.  .  .  . 
She  had  certainly  been  his  favourite  daughter.  Her 
marriage  to  De  Staffelaer,  'his  friend,  a  man  much 
older  than  herself,  had  pleased  him,  because  it  flat- 
tered his  ambition.  .  .  .  But  then,  then  he  fell  ill; 
he  died  soon  after,  soon  after  the  thing  that  hap- 
pened: that  and  her  marriage  to  Van  der  Welcke. 
.  .  .  Oh  God,  was  it  she  who  had  killed  him? 

She  drew  Dorine  to  her: 

"  Tell  me,  Dorine.  .  .  .  Was  Papa  ill  for  long?  " 

'  Yes,  Connie,  very  long." 

They  were  silent.  They  thought  of  their  father, 
of  his  ambition,  of  his  longing  for  the  greatness 
which  he  achieved;  of  his  wish  to  see  his  children 
also  great,  high-placed  and  powerful.  .  .  . 

"  I  say,  Dorine,  how  strange  it  is  ...  that  not 
one  of  Papa's  sons  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Connie?  " 

"  Nothing.  ...     I  don't  know.  .  .  ." 

Papa  had  always  helped  Van  Naghel.  .  .  .  Her 
thoughts  ran  on: 

"  Dorine,  is  Karel  still  a  burgomaster?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Connie!  Karel  and  Cateau  have  been 
living  at  the  Hague  for  years." 

"  And  Gerrit  is  .  .  .  a  captain?" 

"  Yes,  in  the  hussars." 

"  I  am  quite  out  of  everything.  .  .  .  And  Ernst 
.  .  .  does  nothing?  .  .  ." 

"  Ernst  has  always  been  rather  strange,  you  know; 


SMALL  SOULS  31 

he  really  fights  shy  of  people.     He  collects  things, 
all  sorts  of  things :  china,  books,  old  maps.  .  .  ." 

"And  Paul?" 

"  No,  Paul  does  nothing." 

"  But  how  strange  1  " 

"What?" 

'  That  they  have  none  of  them  done  anything  to 
distinguish  themselves:  none  of  Papa's  sons.  .  .  ." 

"  But,  Connie,  they're  all  quite  nice !  "  cried 
Dorine,  indignantly.  "  Well,  yes,  Ernst  is  rather 
queer;  and  of  course  it's  not  right  that  Paul  should 
do  nothing.  .  .  ." 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  it,  Dorine.  .  .  .  But 
Papa  would  have  liked  to  see  his  children  distin- 
guished. .  .  ." 

Dorine  felt  annoyed,  and  at  the  same  time,  con- 
fused: distinguished,  distinguished.  .  .  .  And  her 
thoughts  muttered  within  her  mind,  while  Constance 
stood  looking  at  the  portrait:  distinguished,  distin- 
guished. .  .  .  Constance  did  well  to  talk  of  being 
distinguished!  .  .  .  True,  she  had  made  a  great 
marriage:  De  Staffelaer,  the  minister  at  Rome,  an 
old  diplomatist,  a  friend  of  Papa's.  .  .  .  True, 
she  had  been  distinguished,  no  doubt;  and  it  had 
turned  out  nicely,  her  distinguished  marriage.  Dis- 
tinguished indeed!  .  .  .  Could  Constance  really 
be  vain  still  .  .  .  perhaps  because  she  was  now 
Baroness  van  der  Welcke?  A  fine  thing,  that  scan- 
dal with  Van  der  Welcke !  .  .  .  Distinguished, 
distinguished  .  .  .  well,  no,  they  were  none  of  them 
distinguished.  But  then  everybody  couldn't  be  Vice- 


32^  SMALL  SOULS 

roy  of  the  East  Indies.  .  .  .  Constance  had  always 
had  that  sort  of  vanity;  but  Constance  talking  or 
thinking  unkindly  of  her  brothers,  whom  she  hadn't 
seen  for  years,  that  Dorine  could  not  stand,  no,  that 
she  couldn't:  they  were  the  brothers,  they  were  the 
family,  they  were  the  Van  Lowes;  and  she  couldn't 
stand  it.  ...  She  had  always  stood  up  for  Con- 
stance, for  Constance  was  a  sister,  was  herself  a  Van 
Lowe;  but  Constance  must  not  start  giving  herself 
airs  and  looking  down  upon  them  with  her  "  distin- 
guished," her  "  distinguished."  .  .  .  Very  well, 
the  brothers  were  not  distinguished,  but  there  was 
nothing  else  to  be  said  against  them,  never  had  been ; 
and  against  Constance  there  was!  .  .  .  And  Dor- 
ine's  voice  suddenly  sounded  very  cold,  as  she  asked : 

"  Shall  we  go  back  to  the  drawing-room?  " 

Constance,  however,  absorbed  in  thought,  did  not 
notice  the  cold  voice  and  took  Dorine's  arm.  But, 
when  she  again  passed  Adolphine's  table,  she  heard 
her  call  quickly,  in  a  startled  tone: 

"No  trumps!" 

"  Ss !  Ss !  Ss !  "  Uncle  Ruyvenaer,  who  was 
losing,  hissed  between  his  teeth.  "  What  a  card- 
holder! .  .  .  Constance,  won't  you  cut  in  after 
this  rubber?" 

Constance  was  sure  that  they  were  still  talking 
about  her: 

"  No,  thanks,  Uncle ;  I  really  don't  feel  like  play- 
ing to-night.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  sounded  faint,  in  spite  of  herself.  .  .  . 
She  stopped  for  a  moment,  but,  when  nobody  else 


SMALL  SOULS  33 

spoke,  she  moved  on  aimlessly,  leaning  on  Dorine's 
arm.  .  .  .  She  felt  contented  and  yet  strange,  in 
those  rooms,  in  which  she  saw  herself  as  she  was  on 
that  last  day,  the  day  of  her  marriage  with  De 
Staff elaer;  she  could  see  herself  at  the  -wedding- 
breakfast  and  afterwards,  when  the  time  came  to 
say  good-bye.  .  .  .  Since  then,  her  own  people  had 
become  strangers  to  her. 

Like  a  little  child,  she  went  in  search  of  her 
mother,  who  was  talking  to  Aunt  Ruyvenaer,  sat 
down  in  a  chair  by  her  and  took  her  hand.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  Constance,  it  is  nice,  to  have  you  back 
again !  "  said  Auntie,  energetically,  laying  a  firm, 
Indian  stress  on  her  words.  "  So  nice  for  Mamma 
too,  kassian!  Where  are  you  staying  now?  " 

"  At  the  Hotel  des  Indes,  for  the  present,  Auntie. 
...  As  soon  as  Van  der  Welcke  arrives  from 
Brussels,  we  shall  look  out  for  a  house." 

"  I  am  so  curious  to  meet  your  husband." 

Constance  gave  a  vague  laugh.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  often  go  to  India,  Auntie?  " 

"  Yes,  child,  almost  every  year :  Uncle  likes  go- 
ing .  .  .  because  of  the  business,  Daranginongan, 
the  sugar.  And  then  home  again,  on  our  return- 
tickets.  Oh,  it's  so  easy,  with  the  French  mail.  .  .  . 
No  trouble  at  all.  .  .  .  And  Alima,  my  maid  .  .  . 
she  knows  everything  .  .  .  knows  Paris,  the  custom- 
office,  does  everything,  helps  Uncle  with  the  tickets. 
.  .  .  You  should  see  her:  dressed  just  like  a  lady, 
stays  and  all,  splendid;  you'd  laugh  till  you  cried! 
.  .  .  How  long  did  you  live  in  Brussels?  " 


34  SMALL  SOULS 

"  We  were  eight  years  in  Brussels." 

"  Small,  Brussels,  I  think,  compared  with  Paris. 
What  made  you  go  to  Brussels?  Tell  me." 

"  Well,  Auntie,"  laughed  Constance,  "  we  had  to 
live  somewhere!  We  used  to  travel  a  great  deal 
besides.  We  were  often  on  the  Riviera.  But  sud- 
denly I  got  terribly  homesick  for  Holland,  for 
Mamma,  for  all  of  you.  Then  I  talked  about  it  to 
Van  der  Welcke,  about  moving  to  the  Hague;  and 
he  too  was  longing  to  get  back  to  his  country.  And 
there  was  Adriaan,  my  boy:  he's  thirteen  now;  and 
we  wanted  him  to  have  a  Dutch  education.  .  .  ." 

"  Does  your  son  talk  Dutch?  " 

"  Of  course  he  does,  Auntie." 

"  What  is  he  going  to  be?  " 

Constance  hesitated: 

"  He'll  probably  enter  the  diplomatic  service,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  thinking  involuntarily  of  her 
years  in  Rome,  of  De  Staffelaer,  of  all  that  had  sepa- 
rated her  from  her  people. 

"  Really?  "  asked  Mamma,  greatly  interested. 

"  Yes,  Van  der  Welcke  would  like  it.  .  .  ." 

She  was  still  holding  her  mother's  hand;  and  Mrs. 
van  Lowe  sat  very  erect,  looking  pleased  to  have 
Constance  back. 

"  Marie,"  said  Auntie.  "  Do  you  know  what  I 
think  so  funny  of  you?  You're  mad  on  your  chil- 
dren, mad  on  them.  But,  when  you  see  your  daugh- 
ter after  all  these  years,  you  let  her  sleep  at  the 
Hotel  des  Indes!  Why  is  that?  Tell  me." 


SMALL  SOULS  35 

"  I  saw  Constance  once  or  twice  in  Brussels,"  Mrs. 
van  Lowe  protested. 
Constance  laughed: 

"  But,  Auntie,  Mamma's  like  that,  she  has  her 
own  waysl  And  Adriaan,  Addie,  would  be  too 
much  for  her  .  .  .  though  he's  a  very  quiet  boy." 

Mamma  said  nothing,  smiled  peacefully.  Yes, 
she  was  like  that,  she  had  her  own  ways. 

"  I  was  saying  to  Uncle  to-day,"  Auntie  contin- 
ued, "  if  it  didn't  look  too  funny,  I'd  ask  Constance 
myself  to  stay  with  us.  *  There's  that  Marie,'  I 
said.  '  She's  got  a  big  house  and  leaves  her  child 
at  the  Hotel  des  Indes ! '  It's  beyond  me,  Marie. 
.  .  .  Constance,  you  must  come  and  eat  rice  with 
me  and  bring  your  husband  and  your  boy.  Do  you 
like  nassi?  "  l 

"  Yes,  Auntie.     We  shall  be  delighted." 
Constance  and  Auntie  stood  up ;  Constance  walked 
towards  the  conservatory.     The  young  nephews  and 
nieces  were  sitting  at  their  round  game,  but  had 
stopped  playing.     And  Constance  shrank  from  go- 
ing farther  and  talking  to  them,  for  they  hurriedly 
took  up  their  cards  again  and  went  on  playing. 
And  she  turned  away  and  thought: 
"  They  were  talking  about  me.  .  .  ." 
The  servants  came  in  with  the  trays: 
"Who'll  have  a  sandwich?     Uncle,  shall  I  mix 
you  a  drink?  "  asked  Dorine,  moving  restlessly  about 
the  rooms. 
iRice. 


CHAPTER  IV 

YES,  she  had  longed  for  them  all,  for  her  home  and 
for  Holland  I  Oh,  the  passionate  longing  of  those 
last  years,  ever  and  ever  more  passionate!  Oh, 
how  lonely  she  had  been,  and  how  she  had  pined  for 
Holland,  for  the  Hague,  for  her  relations!  Dur- 
ing all  those  years,  she  had  been  an  outcast  from 
her  home,  an  exile,  as  it  were,  during  all  those  long, 
hungry  years.  Twenty  years  she  had  spent  abroad  I 
For  five  of  them  she  had  been  married  to  De  Staffe- 
laer,  the  five  years  in  Rome,  and  then  .  .  .  oh,  the 
one  mistake  of  her  life !  Ah,  how  she  had  pined 
since  that  mistake,  incessantly!  .  .  .  And,  after 
the  child  was  born,  she  had  pined  incessantly.  .  .  . 
Yes,  for  thirteen  years  she  had  pined!  During  all 
that  time,  she  had  seen  her  mother  twice,  for  a 
couple  of  days,  because  travelling  was  such  an  effort 
for  Mamma,  because  she  herself  dared  not  go  to 
the  Hague,  which  was  so  near,  so  near  1 

Her  brothers,  her  sisters,  her  whole  family  had 
denied  her  all  that  time,  had  never  been  able  to  for- 
give the  scandal  which  she  had  caused,  the  blot  which 
she  had  cast  on  their  name.  .  .  . 

She  was  a  girl  of  twenty-one  when  she  married 
De  Staffelaer.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
Papa's:  they  had  been  at  the  University  together 
and  belonged  to  the  same  club.  Now  De  Staffelaer 
was  Netherlands  minister  at  Rome:  a  good-looking, 

36 


SMALL  SOULS  37 

hale  old  man;  fairly  well-suited  to  his  post:  not  a 
political  genius,  like  Papa,  she  thought;  but  still  full 
of  qualities,  as  Papa  had  always  said.  She  was 
Papa's  favourite;  and  he  had  thought  it  so  pleasant, 
was  proud  that  De  Staffelaer  had  just  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  like  a  young  man,  and  been  unable  to  keep 
away  from  the  Alexanderstraat  when  he  came  to 
Holland,  to  the  Hague,  once  a  year,  on  leave.  She 
remembered  Papa's  smile  when  he  talked  to  her 
about  De  Staffelaer,  hinting  at  what  might  happen. 
.  .  .  They  had  then  been  living  for  five  years  at 
the  Hague,  after  Papa  had  been  governor-general 
for  five  years.  .  .  .  She  remembered  the  viceregal 
period — three  years  of  her  girlhood  from  twelve 
to  seventeen — remembered  the  grandeur  of  it  all: 
the  palaces  at  Batavia  and  Buitenzorg;  their  coun- 
try-house at  Tjipanas;  the  balls  at  which  she  danced, 
young  as  she  was;  the  races;  the  aides-de-camp;  the 
great  gold  pajong: 1  all  the  tropical  grandeur  and 
semi-royalty  of  a  great  colonial  governorship.  .  .  . 
After  tjiat,  at  the  Hague,  a  quieter  time,  but  still 
their  crowded  receptions,  their  great  dinners  to  In- 
dian and  home  celebrities;  Bertha  back  from  India, 
with  Van  Naghel;  she  herself  presented  at  Court. 
.  .  .  She  loved  that  life  and,  from  the  time  when 
she  was  quite  a  young  girl,  had  known  nothing  but 
glamour  around  her.  .  .  .  Papa,  too,  breathed  in 
that  element  of  grandeur:  a  man  of  great  political 
capacity,  as  she  thought,  never  realizing  that  Papa 
had  merely  risen  through  tact;  through  mediocrity; 

1  Umbrella  or  parasol. 

290821 


38  SMALL  SOULS 

through  a  certain  opportune  vagueness  in  his  polit- 
ical creed,  which  was  curved  and  shaded  with  every 
half-curve  and  half-shade  that  the  needs  of  the  mo- 
ment might  dictate ;  through  good-breeding,  through 
the  eloquence  of  his  meaningless,  easy-flowing  sen- 
tences, full  of  the  high-sounding  commonplaces  of 
the  day;  through  his  suavity  and  suppleness,  his  smil- 
ing amiability,  all  the  personal  charm  of  him.  She 
had  always  seen  her  father  important;  she  saw  him 
so  still.  And  she  herself,  at  that  time,  longed  for 
importance,  for  every  sort  of  worldly  vanity:  she 
had  it  in  her  blood.  As  a  young  girl,  she  loved 
brilliancy,  titles;  loved  spacious,  well-lighted  rooms, 
fine  carriages;  loved  to  see  men  in  stars  and  rib- 
bons, ladies  in  court-dress ;  loved  to  curtsey  very  low 
before  the  King  and  Queen:  the  little  Princess  Wil- 
helmina  was  then  still  a  baby.  .  .  .  Thanks  to  De 
Staffelaer,  their  receptions  were  sometimes  attended 
by  members  of  the  corps  diplomatique  and  of  that 
particular  set  at  the  Hague  which  fastens  on  to  the 
diplomatists:  the  little  band  of  people  who,  at  the 
Hague,  are  stared  and  gaped  at  wherever  they  go, 
who  talk  loudly  at  the  opera,  swaggering  in  all  the 
arrogance  of  their  smartness  and  conceit,  looking 
down  upon  all  and  everything  that  does  not  form 
part  of  their  own  little  set  and  encouraged  in  their 
blatant  self-assertion  by  the  Hague  public,  with  its 
flattering  tribute  of  open-mouthed  curiosity.  She 
did  not  see  all  this,  especially  as  a  young  girl:  she 
thought  it  grand  if  a  Spanish  marquis  or  a  German 
count,  a  member  of  one  of  the  legations,  showed 


SMALL  SOULS  39 

himself  for  ten  minutes  at  her  parents'  receptions; 
and,  if  Mrs.  This  or  the  Freule  2  That,  of  "  the  set," 
came  for  only  five  minutes,  Constance  would  brag 
about  it,  with  an  assumption  of  indifference,  for  the 
next  three  months.  Vanity  was  born  in  her  blood 
and  had  been  nourished  at  Batavia  and  Buitenzorg, 
where  she  was  made  much  of  as  the  young  daughter 
of  the  governor-general.  Now,  at  the  Hague,  full- 
fledged,  she  struggled,  above  all,  to  be  invited  to 
the  drawing-rooms  of  "  the  set."  It  was  very  diffi- 
cult, though  Bertha  and  she  had  been  presented  at 
Court,  though  her  parents  still  had  ever  so  many 
connections.  She  was  constantly  encountering  cold- 
ness on  the  part  of  "  the  set,"  coupled  with  great 
incivility,  which  she  had  to  swallow;  but  she  had 
some  of  Papa's  tact  and  she  went  on  struggling:  she 
left  cards  on  Mrs.  This  to  all  eternity,  with  a  snob- 
bishness for  which  she  came  to  blush  later;  she 
bowed  and  talked  pleasantly,  to  all  eternity,  to  the 
Freule  That,  receiving  nothing  in  return  but  a  snub. 
She  had  found  that  the  Hague  was  not  the  same  as 
Batavia ;  that,  though  you  had  been  the  highest  per- 
sonage at  Batavia,  you  were  not  so  easily  admitted 
into  that  very  high  circle  of  the  Hague,  "  the 
set."  .  .  . 

Now,  she  laughed  softly  at  all  this,  after  that  first 
family-evening,  sitting  in  her  room  at  the  hotel, 
while  her  boy  slept.  .  .  .  Yes,  Papa  had  always 
smiled  .because  De  Staffelaer  was  so  much  in  love 
with  her;  and  she  herself  had  thought  it  delicious 

2  The  title  borne  by  noblemen's  unmarried  daughters. 


40  SMALL  SOULS 

to  be  wooed  by  this  diplomatist,  with  his  ribbons  and 
stars,  by  this  smiling,  courtly  man  of  sixty,  who  did 
not  look  a  day  more  than  fifty.  And,  when  he  asked 
Papa  for  her  hand,  she  accepted  him,  very  glad  and 
happy,  a  little  flushed  and  triumphant,  rather  in- 
clined to  preen  herself  in  the  delectable  atmosphere 
of  congratulation;  she  was  now,  thanks  to  De  Staffe- 
laer,  decidedly  a  member  of  "  the  set "  and,  at  the 
same  time,  did  not  need  "  the  set "  so  very  much, 
now  that  she  was  going  to  Rome,  to  spend  her  life 
in  circles  such  as  that  of  the  Quirinal  and  the 
"  white "  Roman  world.  .  .  .  She  had  attained 
her  aim.  She  had  a  charming  husband,  not  young, 
but  none  the  less  passionately  in  love  with  her  and 
vain,  in  his  turn,  of  his  young  and  pretty  wife.  She 
had  a  title.  She  had  money  enough,  even  though 
De  Staffelaer's  affairs  were  somewhat  involved.  She 
found  the  Court  balls  at  Rome  more  splendid  than 
the  routs  at  the  Hague;  she  was  introduced  to  all 
sorts  of  great  names.  The  Italian  aristocracy,  it  is 
true,  was  even  more  exclusive  than  that  of  the 
Hague;  but  she  moved  in  a  brilliant  circle  of  diplo- 
matists and  foreigners.  Only,  she  was  struck  by 
the  fact  that,  abroad,  the  members  of  the  corps  diplo- 
matique were  not  stared  at  so  much  as  in  the  opera 
at  the  Hague  or  on  the  terrace  at  Scheveningen.  It 
almost  annoyed  her:  she  would  have  liked  to  be 
stared  at  in  her  turn.  But,  in  the  society  of  a  big 
capital  like  Rome,  the  wife  of  the  Netherlands  min- 
ister, even  though  she  was  young  and  pretty  and  well- 
dressed,  was  not  so  important  a  person  as  the  Mar- 


SMALL  SOULS  41 

quesa  This,  of  the  Spanish  Legation,  or  Mrs.  This 
or  the  Freule  That,  of  "  the  set,"  was  at  the  Hague. 
People  did  not  stare  at  her,  in  Rome;  and  this  was 
almost  a  disappointment.  .  .  .  Besides,  her  in- 
creasing and  often  wounded  vanity  left  a  certain 
void  within  her,  a  sense  of  boredom.  De  Staffelaer, 
ever  courtly,  pleasant  and  in  love,  with  the  appre- 
hensive love  of  an  old  man  for  the  young  wife  whom 
he  is  afraid  lest  he  should  soon  cease  to  attract, 
ended  by  irritating  her  and  upsetting  her  nerves.  .  .  . 
But  this,  at  the  time,  was  nothing  more — nor  any- 
thing more  serious — than  boredom  and  vague  dis- 
content. .  .  .  Since  then,  life  had  set  its  mark  on 
Constance.  Often  now,  as  a  woman  of  forty-two, 
she  felt  a  dull  melancholy  in  pondering  on  her  life; 
she  let  her  life,  one  woman's  life,  glide  past  her  gaze 
once  more;  she  began  with  her  childish  years  in  In- 
dia; saw  once  more  the  splendour  and  grandeur  of 
Buitenzorg;  criticized  her  own  vanity  during  her 
girlhood  at  the  Hague;  saw  her  marriage  as  the 
great  mistake  of  her  life;  saw,  as  the  second,  irrev- 
ocable mistake  of  her  life,  all  that  had  happened 
with  Van  der  Welcke.  .  .  .  Her  life  had  been 
warped  beyond  remedy.  She  had  gone  from  van- 
ity to  wantonness,  to  reckless  play-acting  with  that 
life,  big  with  fate,  which  she  had  first  seen  only  as 
a  dazzling  reflection,  a  reflection  of  mirrors,  can- 
dles, satin,  jewels,  titles  and  orders:  the  setting  of 
the  play;  a  little  flirtation,  a  little  jesting — not  even 
always  witty — with  smart  men  of  the  world,  refined 
and  elegant  in  their  dress-clothes,  who  assumed  airs 


42  SMALL  SOULS 

of  mysterious  importance  about  the  great  affairs  of 
kings  and  countries,  affairs  which  were  settled  by 
just  two  or  three  supermen  in  Berlin,  London  or  St. 
Petersburg,  while  most  of  the  others,  the  exquisites, 
gave  weighty  decisions  on  a  matter  of  ceremony,  a 
visit,  a  card  with  or  without  the  corner  turned  down, 
a  little  matter  of  etiquette,  trivialities  around  which 
their  whole  existence  and  that  of  their  wives  re- 
volved. She,  too,  had  given  weighty  decisions  in 
all  these  matters:  a  three  weeks'  mourning  for  this 
royal  highness ;  an  eight  days'  mourning — very  light, 
with  a  touch  of  white — for  that  royal  highness;  and 
her  life  was  so  full  of  all  this  ado  about  nothing  that 
she  had  hardly  had  time  to  reflect.  In  Rome,  as  the 
wife  of  the  Netherlands  minister,  with  some  preten- 
sions to  lead  the  cosmopolitan  circle  which  here  and 
there  touched  upon  that  of  the  exclusive  Roman  aris- 
tocracy, she  was  so  busy  with  her  hairdresser  and 
her  tailor,  with  shopping  in  the  morning,  half-a- 
dozen  visits  and  a  charity  matinee  in  the  afternoon, 
a  Court  ball  at  night,  followed  by  a  little  supper :  so 
busy  that  it  affected  her  health  and  often  left  her 
tired  and  pale.  But  she  had  grudged  none  of  it, 
so  long  as  she  saw  her  name  mentioned  with  the 
others  in  the  newspapers.  And,  when,  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  empty  glamour,  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
empty  bustle,  she  met  Van  der  Welcke,  the  new 
young  secretary  of  the  Netherlands  Legation,  and, 
of  course,  saw  him  nearly  every  day,  she  had  allowed 
him  to  make  love  to  her,  just  because  a  couple  of  her 
friends  declared  that  he  was  making  love  to  her  and 


SMALL  SOULS  43 

because  a  serious  flirtation,  a  passion,  formed  part 
of  the  game,  as  it  were.  And  then,  in  very  elegant 
language,  she  had  complained  to  Van  der  Welcke 
of  the  void  in  her  life  and  said  all  sorts  of  fine  things 
about  soul-hunger  and  life-weariness,  without  know- 
ing anything  about  soul-hunger  or  life-weariness  and 
remembering  that  she  had  to  go  to  her  dressmaker, 
that  afternoon,  and  to  two  receptions  and  that  she 
had  her  own  reception  in  the  evening.  Then  she 
parroted  bits  out  of  a  French  novel,  acted  a  scene 
or  two  after  the  same  model,  thinking  it  time  to 
bring  a  little  literature  into  her  life.  He,  a  good- 
looking  fellow — short  and  well-knit,  sturdy  without 
being  clumsy,  with  a  pair  of  boyish  blue  eyes,  a 
shapely,  round  head  with  lightly-curling,  short, 
brown  hair,  like  a  head  of  Hermes,  and  still  exceed- 
ingly young — thought  that  it  would  look  well  for  him 
to  make  a  little  love  to  his  chief's  wife,  without  go- 
ing any  farther,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  it  was  impos- 
sible for  them  to  play  with  fire  unscathed,  in  an  at- 
mosphere like  that  of  Rome.  They  saw  so  many 
French  novels  acted  around  them  that,  quite  invol- 
untarily, they  began  to  feel  not  only  like  a  modern 
hero  and  heroine  of  fiction  or  a  pair  of  fashionable 
actors,  but  what  they  were :  a  young  man  and  a  young 
woman;  she  the  wife  of  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her 
father.  What  had  started  with  a  compliment  and 
a  laugh — because  of  what  her  friends  had  told  her 
— led  to  a  warmer  pressure  of  the  hand,  not  once 
but  many  times,  the  abandonment  of  a  waltz,  a  kiss 
and  the  rest.  .  .  .  They  both  glided  towards  sin 


44  SMALL  SOULS 

gradually,  as  though  Inevitably.  She  was  at  first 
greatly  surprised  at  herself  and  annoyed  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  felt  the  danger  of  playing  with 
life  .  .  .  especially  when  she,  who  had  never  loved, 
fell  in  love  with  the  man  who  had  acted  with  her  in 
this  drawing-room  comedy  and  turned  it  to  earnest. 
In  her  soul,  choked  with  vanity  and  false  glamour, 
one  genuine  emotion  now  sprang  up :  she  fell  in  love 
with  Van  der  Welcke.  She  did  not  love  him  for 
any  quality  of  soul  or  heart  or  temperament,  but  she 
loved  him  all  the  same,  loved  him  as  a  young  woman 
loves  a  young  man,  with  all  the  blind  impulse  of  her 
womanhood.  Her  feeling  for  him  was  primitive 
and  simple,  but  it  was  whole-souled  and  true.  Un- 
til now,  she  had  cared  for  nothing  but  Mrs.  This  or 
Freule  That,  of  "  the  set;  "  the  ceremonial  splendour 
of  the  Court;  dinners,  dresses,  decorations;  and  all 
sorts  of  important  matters  concerning  visits  and  vis- 
iting-cards. Now,  she  cared  for  a  human  being,  a 
man,  not  for  the  sake  of  a  wedding-ceremony,  or 
stars  and  ribbons,  or  visits  of  congratulation,  but 
simply  so  that  she  might  hold  him  in  her  arms.  She 
felt  something  real  blossoming  within  her;  and  the 
feeling  was  so  strange  to  her  that  it  made  her  anx- 
ious and  unhappy.  Their  love  was  anxious,  their 
love  became  unhappy,  as  though  it  had  a  foreboding 
of  all  their  hidden  fate.  They  both  heard  it,  the 
heavy  footfall  of  their  fate.  It  was  as  though,  at 
their  meetings,  in  their  most  passionate  embraces, 
they  listened  outside  to  the  rustle  of  one  spying  on 
them  .  .  ,  and  to  that  heavy  footfall  of  their  fate. 


SMALL  SOULS  45 

And,  from  the  French  novel,  with  its  seasoned  in- 
trigue that  seemed  to  suit  them  so  well,  their  love 
turned  into  the  real  tragedy  of  their  lives.  She  had 
envious  enemies,  jealous*  because  she  had  given  a 
finer  dinner  than  they,  jealous  of  a  handsomer  dress. 
De  Staffelaer  was  first  warned  by  anonymous  letters. 
Then  a  footman  whom  he  had  occasion  to  rebuke 
flung  it  in  his  face  that  mevrouw  was  carrying  on 
with  meneer  the  secretary.  .  .  .  He  traced  their 
place  of  assignation.  He  found  Van  der  Welcke 
there,  while  Constance  had  just  time  to  escape  down 
a  back  staircase.  Amid  this  damning  confusion,  Van 
der  Welcke's  denial  was  tantamount  to  a  confes- 
sion. .  .  . 

Of  course,  the  scandal  was  spread  abroad  at  once, 
in  Holland  as  well  as  in  Rome.  A  divorce  followed. 
Constance  was  condemned  by  her  family  and  cast 
out,  left  as  it  were  homeless.  .  .  .  She  always  fan- 
cied that  the  scandal  had  been  Papa's  death:  a 
year  later,  he  pined  away,  died,  slowly,  from  the 
effects  of  a  stroke,  broken-hearted  over  the  stain 
which  his  favourite  daughter  had  cast  upon  all  the 
blameless  decorum  of  the  aristocrat  and  statesman 
that  he  was.  She  was  left  as  it  were  homeless,  with 
a  small  allowance  from  De  Staffelaer,  which  she 
refused  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  do  without 
it.  ... 

Then  she  saw  Van  der  Welcke  come  to  her,  to 
Florence,  where  she  had,  so  to  speak,  taken  sanc- 
tuary. But  he  did  not  come  to  her  of  his  own  ac- 
cord; he  came  sent,  forced  to  go,  by  his  father. 


46  SMALL  SOULS 

For  his  father  would  not  suffer  him  to  go  his  own 
way  and  leave  this  woman  to  her  misery.  As  she 
had  given  herself  to  him,  his  father  ordered  him, 
in  his  turn,  to  give  up  all  to  her:  his  name  and  his 
career. 

Henri  van  der  Welcke  had  been  brought  up,  from 
childhood,  to  yield  unquestioning  obedience  to  his 
parents.  His  father  and  mother  were  both  de- 
scended from  those  strict,  religious,  doughty,  aristo- 
cratic Dutch  families  to  which  the  Hague  "  set "  is 
a  thorn  in  the  flesh;  and  they  had  judged  the  matter 
thus,  with  rigid  and  scrupulous  justice,  as  a  duty  be- 
fore God  and  man.  And  their  heir,  at  this,  the  su- 
preme moment  of  his  life,  once  more  showed  himself 
a  dutiful  son.  He  obeyed  his  parents'  command. 
He  resigned  his  post,  broke  off  his  young  career. 
He  went  to  Constance,  telling  her  that  his  parents 
had  sent  him;  but,  in  their  mutual  misery,  they  still 
seemed  to  find  some  love  for  each  other  in  what  re- 
mained of  their  first  passion.  She  was  too  desperate 
to  indulge  in  long  reflection  or  to  decline  the  way 
of  escape  which  he  offered  her.  As  they  could  not 
be  married  at  once  by  Dutch  law,  they  were  married 
in  London  as  soon  as  it  was  possible.  Constance 
wrote  to  Henri's  parents  to  express  her  gratitude; 
but  they  did  not  answer  her  letter.  They  refused 
to  know  her,  refused  to  see  her.  They  had  sacri- 
ficed their  son  to  her,  because  they  thought  it  their 
duty  before  God;  and  they  had  made  this  heavy 
sacrifice,  because  they  were  religious  people,  honest, 
righteous  people ;  but  their  hearts  were  bitter  against 


SMALL  SOULS  47 

Constance:  they  would  never  forgive  her  the  sacri- 
fice which  their  honesty,  their  righteousness  had  re- 
quired of  them,  the  parents.  .  .  . 

Henri  and  Constance  had  lived  in  England,  trav- 
elled in  Italy  and  ended  by  settling  down  in  Brussels. 
Their  son  was  born;  the  years  passed.  Slowly,  in 
Brussels,  they  made  acquaintances,  made  friends; 
and,  in  the  course  of  years,  those  acquaintances  and 
friends  dispersed.  Twice,  amid  heavy  emotion, 
they  had  seen  Mamma  van  Lowe  in  Brussels  for  a 
couple  of  days  at  a  time:  the  other  members  of  the 
family  never.  The  lonely  years  dragged  on.  They 
both  came  to  look  upon  their  lives  as  one  great  mis- 
take. Constance'  vanity,  moreover,  resented  the 
dull  existence  which  they  led;  Henri,  who  was  four 
years  younger  than  his  wife,  was  for  ever  regretting 
that  he  had  sacrificed  his  future  to  this  woman  at 
his  parents'  behest.  They  were  fettered  to  each 
other  in  the  narrow  prison  of  marriage.  Passion 
dead,  the  despairing  illusion  of  love  killed,  they  had 
never  been  able  to  accommodate  themselves  to  each 
other;  and  without  mutual  accommodation  there  is 
no  happiness  in  marriage.  Whatever  they  said  or 
thought  or  did  led  to  discord.  Their  lives  were 
never  in  step,  but  stumbled  and  shambled  and  shuf- 
fled along.  Every  word  spoken  by  the  one  was  an 
offence  to  the  other:  they  could  not  endure  each 
other's  going  and  coming.  Latterly,  they  could  not 
speak  but  their  speech  caused  a  quarrel.  Between 
them  stood  the  child,  still  the  child  of  their  love. 
But  the  child  did  not  unite  them,  was  a  cause  of 


48  SMALL  SOULS 

jealousy  to  both.  They  grudged  each  other  their 
offspring.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  his  son  in  her 
arms;  she  could  not  bear  to  see  her  boy  on  his  knee. 
He  turned  pale  when  she  kissed  the  boy;  she  cried 
with  envy  when  he  took  him  for  a  walk.  Yet  they 
did  not  think  of  a  separation,  deeming  the  thought 
ridiculous,  not  so  much  for  the  world  as,  above  all, 
for  themselves.  They  would  continue  to  bear  their 
fetters  together,  until  their  death,  in  hatred. 

The  intolerable  nature  of  their  existence  was 
enough  to  give  Constance  a  feeling  of  home-sickness 
for  Holland.  The  last  few  years  in  Brussels,  now 
that  their  acquaintances  were  scattered,  had  been  so 
lonely,  so  melancholy,  so  forlorn,  so  bitter,  so  full 
of  dislike,  hatred,  envy  of  Henri,  that  she  yearned 
for  consolation,  for  some  sort  of  love  that  would 
come  to  her  with  open  arms  and  understand  and 
pity  her.  There  were  days  when  she  did  not  utter 
a  word,  after  a  scene  with  Henri,  until  Adriaan 
threw  his  arms  about  her,  while  she  burst  out  sobbing 
on  his  childish  breast.  The  boy,  in  other  respects 
a  sturdy  lad,  had  his  nerves  so  much  shaken  by  this 
open  conflict  between  his  parents  that  he  often  fell 
ill. 

Then  both  Henri  and  Constance,  greatly  alarmed, 
would  suggest  parting  from  Adriaan,  for  the  boy's 
own  good,  so  that  he  might  not  be  a  witness  to  their 
inevitable  disputes.  But  they  were  both  too  weak. 
In  their  intolerable  life  Adriaan  was  the  only  allevia- 
tion. And  neither  of  them  had  ever  been  able  to 
resolve  upon  this  parting;  both  merely  promised 


SMALL  SOULS  49 

themselves  to  exercise  restraint  in  future,  so  that 
the  boy  might  not  suffer.  .  .  . 

Gradually,  Constance  had  talked  more  and  more 
about  Holland,  confessed  that  she  was  yearning  for 
all  those  whom  she  had  left  behind.  She  longed  for 
them  all :  her  mother,  her  brothers,  her  sisters.  She 
yearned  for  affection,  for  family-affection,  for  the 
fostering  warmth  and  love  and  sympathy  of  a  large 
circle  of  relations,  who  would  show  her  the  kindness 
which  she  had  known  of  old,  at  Buitenzorg,  at  the 
Hague.  And  Van  der  Welcke  also  began  to  feel 
that  strange  nostalgia  which  urges  a  man  towards 
the  land  of  his  birth,  of  his  own  tongue,  of  his  kin- 
dred. Weary  of  living  abroad,  he  fell  in  with  Con- 
stance' view,  really  because  of  a  chance  word  from 
Addie,  who  also  often  had  the  word  Holland  on 
his  lips;  the  father  was  now  thinking  of  his  child's 
future.  .  .  .  But  they  must  first  learn  how  the  fam- 
ily would  receive  them.  Van  der  Welcke  wrote  to 
his  parents,  Constance  to  Mamma  van  Lowe.  They 
wrote  with  all  the  humility  of  exiles;  once  more  asked 
for  forgiveness,  after  those  fourteen  years;  said  that 
they  were  longing  to  see  their  country  again,  their 
parents,  brothers,  sisters,  to  enjoy  the  sweet  happi- 
ness of  living  where  they  would  be  at  home.  Both 
had  felt  the  old  inviolable  bonds  drawing  them 
towards  Holland,  as  though  there  were  something 
which  they  needed  before  they  could  grow  old  and 
be  a  father  and  mother  to  their  son.  .  .  .  Henri's 
parents  had  not  yet  written,  did  not  at  once  reply 
to  his  question  whether  they  could  not  forgive  him 


50  SMALL  SOULS 

now  that  those  long,  long  years  were  past,  whethei 
they  would  not  receive  his  wife,  who,  after  all,  was 
their  daughter-in-law,  who,  after  all,  was  the  mother 
of  his  son,  their  grandchild.  But  Mamma  van 
Lowe  had  sent  Constance  a  sweet  and  loving  letter, 
a  letter  which  Constance  had  kissed,  which  had  made 
her  sob  with  happiness.  Mamma  had  written  that 
her  child  was  to  come  to  her,  that  all  was  forgiven, 
all  forgotten,  that  the  brothers  and  sisters  would  re- 
ceive her  with  open  arms.  And  she  had  expressed 
her  own  delight,  as  the  old  mother,  who  found  it  so 
difficult  to  get  about,  who  disliked  travelling,  though 
it  was  but  a  two  or  three  hours'  journey  to  Brussels, 
and  hated  being  so  far  from  her  child,  for  Constance 
was  her  child,  in  spite  of  all.  Then  Constance  could 
restrain  herself  no  longer  and,  without  waiting  for 
the  letter  from  Henri's  father  and  mother,  had  gone 
on  ahead  with  Adriaan.  Henri  remained  behind  to 
settle  a  few  matters  of  business:  he  was  to  follow  in 
a  week. 

And  Holland,  yonder,  so  near  and  yet  so  long  un- 
attainable, was  to  them  as  a  land  of  promise,  a  land 
of  peace,  of  happiness  long-deferred,  where  they 
would  find,  for  themselves  and  for  their  son,  all  that 
of  which  they  had  been  starved  for  years  and  years : 
parents  and  relations,  old  friends  and  acquaintances 
and,  as  the  very  essence  of  it  all,  that  fragrant  Dutch 
atmosphere,  so  indescribable  and  yet,  as  they  now 
realized,  craved  for  by  their  parched  and  famished 
souls.  Both,  as  with  one  thought,  had  suddenly, 
for  all  the  discord  of  their  lives,  known  as  a  cer- 


SMALL  SOULS  51 

tainty,  both  for  themselves  and  their  son,  that,  to 
grow  old  and  be  a  father  and  mother  to  their  boy, 
they  must  return  to  their  country,  to  which  they  were 
attached  by  those  strange,  mysterious  and  long-unsus- 
pected bonds  which  may  be  denied  for  years,  but 
which  end  by  reasserting  themselves,  irrefragably, 
for  ever  and  all  time. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  Sunday  afternoon. 

u  We  must  re-ally,  Ka-rel,  pay  a  coup-le  of  vis-its, 
this  af-ter-noon,"  drawled  Cateau  van  Lowe. 

Karel  assented :  it  was  visiting-day. 

"Where?  "he  asked. 

She  named  one  or  two  acquaintances: 

"  And  then  we  must  al-so  go  to  Aunt  and  Un-cle 
Ruyvenaer;  it's  their  turn.  .  .  .  And  then,  Ka-rel, 
to  your  sis-ter,  to  Con-stance.  .  .  ." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  wait  till  Van  der  Welcke's 
there?  Otherwise  we  shall  have  to  go  again." 

"  I  don't  think  it  looks  friend-ly  ...  to  wait  till 
Van  der  Wel-cke  comes.  .  .  .  Mamma  did  set  us 
the  exam-pie,  Ka-rel,  you  know." 

"  Then  wouldn't  it  be  better,  Cateau,  for  you  to 
go  alone  first:  then  I  can  call  on  Van  der  Welcke 
later.  Or  do  you  think  I  ought  to  wait  until  Van 
der  Welcke  has  been  to  see  me?  " 

"  We  won't  cal-culate  it  quite  so  close-ly  as  all 
that,"  said  Cateau,  generously.  "  It  looks  as  if  we 
were  not  friend-ly.  ...  It  would  be  bet-ter  if  you 
came  with  me  to-day,  Karel." 

So  they  decided  both  to  call  on  Constance  that 
afternoon;  and  they  were  on  the  point  of  starting 
when  the  bell  rang  and  Adolphine  van  Saetzema  en- 
tered : 

5* 


SMALL  SOULS  53 

"  What  a  nui-sance,"  thought  Cateau.  "  Now  the 
carriage  will  ab-solute-ly  have  to  wait." 

It  was  raining;  and  this  meant  that  the  brougham 
would  get  wet.  The  horse  was  jobbed;  the  coach- 
man did  not  count:  he  was  only  a  man. 

"  Ah,  Adolph-ine !     This  is  nice  of  you.  .  .  ." 

"  I  see  your  carriage  is  at  the  door.  .  .  .  Are 
you  going  out?  " 

"  Yes,  pres-ently,  to  pay  a  visit  ...  or  two.  .  .  ." 

"  So  am  I.  But  don't  let  me  keep  you.  I  am 
going  to  Constance  this  afternoon." 

"  So  are  we." 

"Oh,  are  you?  I  would  really  rather  have 
waited  till  she  had  called  on  me." 

"  Oh,"  said  Cateau,  "  it  looks  as  if  we  weren't 
friend-ly,  to  cal-culate  it  so  close-ly,  don't  you  think, 
Adolph-ine?  But  do  sit  down,  Adolph-ine." 

Adolphine  sat  down,  for  she  was  paying  Karel 
and  Cateau  a  visit;  and,  if  she  had  not  sat  down,  the 
visit  would  not  have  been  paid,  would  not  have 
counted  as  a  visit.  Perhaps  that  was  also  the  rea- 
son why  Karel  and  Cateau  urged  Adolphine  to  sit 
down:  otherwise,  she  would  have  been  obliged  to 
come  back  another  day. 

They  all  sat  down:  the  brother,  the  sister,  the  jx 
sister-in-law.  Outside,  the  rain  was  pouring  in  tor- 
rents; and  already  the  brougham  was  glistening  with 
the  wet:  Cateau's  saucer-eyes  watched  every  drop 
through  the  curtains.  The  usual  drawing-room  talk 
began: 

"What  terrible  wea-ther,  isn't  it,  Adolph-ine?" 


54  SMALL  SOULS 

"  Terrible." 

Adolphine  was  thin,  angular,  envious,  badly- 
dressed.  Beside  the  prosperous,  opulent  respecta- 
bility of  Karel  and  Cateau,  sleek  with  good  living, 
heavy  with  comfort,  radiating  money  and  ease — 
Karel  in  his  thick  frieze  great-coat,  Cateau  in  a  rich 
silk  dress  and  a  rich  fur-trimmed  jacket,  with  a  rich 
toque  crowning  her  round,  pink-and-white,  full-moon 
face — Adolphine  looked  shabby,  peevish  and  pre- 
tentious. The  stuff  of  her  clothes  could  not  com- 
pare with  Gateau's,  which  were  eloquent  of  money, 
good,  substantial  money;  and  yet  Adolphine  had 
certain  pretentions  to  fashion  and  elegance.  A  thin, 
straggling  boa  wound  its  length  around  her  neck. 
Her  fringe,  out  of  curl  because  of  the  wet,  hung 
in  rats'-tails  from  under  a  shabby  little  hat,  draped 
in  a  limp  veil.  It  was  as  though  Adolphine  felt  this, 
for  she  said,  enviously: 

"  I  didn't  trouble  to  put  on  anything  decent,  in 
this  beastly  rain." 

Cateau  looked  meaningly  at  the  carriage  out- 
side: 

"So  you're  going  to  Con-stance'  al-so?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes.  But  when  will  Van  der  Welcke  be  here? 
Saetzema  is  waiting  to  pay  his  visit  until  Van  der 
Welcke  comes.  .  .  ." 

'You  see?"  said  Karel  to  Cateau. 

"  Oh?  "  asked  Cateau,  drawling  her  words  more 
than  ever.  "  Is  Saet-zema  wait-ing  until  Van  der 
Wel-cke  comes?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  told  Karel  to  come 
with  me  because,  per-haps,  it  wouldn't  look  friend-ly ! 


SMALL  SOULS  55 

„  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  Con-stance,  Adolph- 
ine?  Karel  thinks  his  sis-ter  so  al-tered,  so  al- 
tered. ...  .  ." 

"  Yes,  she's  altered.  She  has  grown  old,  very 
old,"  said  Adolphine,  who,  herself  four  years 
younger  than  Constance,  looked  decidedly  older. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  said  Karel,  trying  to  de- 
fend  his  sister.  "  You  would  never  say  she  was 
forty-two.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  is  she  forty-two?"  drawled  Cateau. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think,"  said  Adolphine.  "  I 
don't  think  Constance  looks  a  bit  distinguished." 

When  Adolphine  was  envious  and  jealous — and 
that  was  generally — she  said  the  exact  opposite  of 
what  she  thought  in  her  heart. 

"  Not  a  bit  distinguished!  "  she  repeated,  with  con- 
viction. "  There  is  something  in  the  way  she  does 
her  hair,  in  those  rings  of  hers — I  don't  know — 
something  not  quite  respectable.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  something  foreign,"  said  Karel,  feebly,  by 
way  of  an  excuse. 

"  I  think,"  said  Cateau,  "  Con-stance  has  some- 
thing about  her  that's  not  quite  prop-er.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,"  said  Adolphine,  "  but  propriety  isn't  her 
strong  point !  " 

"  Never  was,"  grinned  Karel,  in  his  turn. 

"  If  she  had  only  stayed  in  Brussels !  "  snapped 
Adolphine. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Cateau,  opening  big  owl's  eyes.  "  Do 
you  think  so  too?" 

"Yes.     And  you?" 


56  SMALL  SOULS 

"  So  do  we,  re-ally,"  drawled  Cateau,  more  cheer- 
fully, forgetting  the  brougham  waiting  in  the  wet. 

"  Yes,"  said  Adolphine,  with  conviction.  "  What 
are  we  to  do  with  a  sister  like  that?  " 

"  Whom  you  can't  let  any  one  meet,"  growled 
Karel  under  his  breath. 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  whined  Cateau  to  Adolphine.  "  Do 
you  think  so  too?  " 

"  And,"  said  Adolphine,  "  mark  my  words,  you'll 
see,  she's  full  of  pretensions.  You  know  the  sort 
of  thing,"  with  an  envious  wave  of  the  hand.  "  So- 
ciety .  .  .  pushing  herself  .  .  .  perhaps  even  going 
to  Court." 

"No!"  drawled  Cateau.  "  Sure-ly  for  that, 
even  Constance  would  have  too  much  tact." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure !  "  growled  Karel. 

Unlike  Bertha  and  Constance,  Adolphine  had  not 
been  presented  at  Court,  because,  after  Constance' 
marriage  Papa  and  Mamma  van  Lowe,  feeling  old 
and  tired,  had  taken  to  living  more  quietly.  She 
could  never  forgive  them  for  it. 

"  No!  "  droned  Cateau.  "  But  then  you  are  such 
a  regular,  good,  Dutch  wife  and  mo-ther,  Adolph-ine. 
That's  what  I  al-ways  say  to  Ka-rel." 

Adolphine  looked  flattered. 

"  Yes,  but,"  said  Karel,  by  way  of  excuse,  "  you 
mustn't  look  to  Constance  for  what  she  has  never 
been.  She  went  straight  to  Rome  after  her  first  mar- 
riage." 

"  Those  Court  circles  are  always  fast,"  Adolphine 
declared. 


SMALL  SOULS  57 

"  And  then,  in  Rome"  cried  Cateau,  clasping  her 
fat  hands,  "  such  things  hap-pen !  " 

Adolphine  rose:  her  visit  was  paid.  She  had  a 
great  deal  more  to  talk  about,  among  others  the  way 
in  which  Bertha  had,  so  to  speak,  forced  her  daugh- 
ter Emilie  into  her  engagement  with  Van  Raven ;  but 
it  was  growing  late :  she  took  her  leave.  Karel  and 
Cateau  went  straight  to  the  brougham: 

"Oh,  de-ar!"  said  Cateau,  in  a  startled  voice. 
"  How  wet  the  carriage  has  got !  " 

They  drove  to  pay  their  visits.  First,  they  drove 
to  the  Ruyvenaers:  Karel  rang;  fortunately,  Uncle 
and  Aunt  were  out.  Cards  for  Uncle  and  Aunt. 
Next — Cateau  consulted  her  list — to  Mrs.  van  Frie- 
sesteijn,  an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  van  Lowe's.  At 
home.  A  cantankerous,  shrivelled  little  old  lady, 
always  alert  for  news: 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Cateau.  Sit  down,  Van  Lowe. 
So,  Constance  is  back,  I  hear." 

"  Ye-es,"  drawled  Cateau,  "  it's  ve-ry  unpleas-ant 
for  us." 

"  And  how  is  Constance?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right,"  said  Karel,  casually. 
'  You  see,  me-vrouw,"  droned  Cateau,  "  she's  Ka- 
rel's  sis-ter,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  So  you're  all  receiving  her?  " 
'  Yes,  because  of  Mamma,  you  know." 

"And  Bertha  too?" 

"  Ye-e-es,  Berth-a,  too." 

"  And  will  she  go  to  Court  again,  do  you 
think?" 


58  SMALL  SOULS 

"  Well,  Adolph-ine  said  that  she'd  be  sure  to  go  to 
Court  again." 

"  I  think  that's  wrong  of  Constance,"  said  the  old 
lady,  sharply,  inquisitively,  eager  for  a  bit  of  scan- 
dal. "  And  Bertha's  Emilie  is  soon  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"  Ye-es.     And  Adolph-ine's  Floor-tje  too." 

"  I  hear  Emilie  is  to  have  a  splendid  trousseau," 
said  the  old  lady.  "  Floortje's  will  be  much  less 
grand,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Not  so  fine,"  drawled  Cateau.  "  But  still  ve-ry 
nice.  What  terrible  wea-ther,  me-vrouw!  .  .  . 
Come,  Ka-rel,  we  must  be  go-ing  on.  .  .  ." 

In  the  brougham  again.  Next  visit  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  IJkstra,  cousins  of  Cateau,  who  was  born  an 
I  Jkstra : 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Pie-ie-iet  ?  How  d'ye  do,  An- 
na?" 

"How  d'ye  do,  Cateau?  How  d'ye  do,  Karel? 
So  Constance  is  back?  " 

'  Yes.  What  do  you  thi-i-i-ink  of  it?  And  they 
all  say  ev-erywhere,  that  she  is  go-ing  to  Court." 

"Oh!" 

"Nonsense!" 

4  Yes,  Adolph-ine  said  so  ...  and  so  did  Mrs. 
van  Frie-sesteijn." 

"  How  mad  of  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke,  with  that 
past  of  hers!  " 

"  Perhaps  it's  her  husband  who  wants  to  go." 

"  Oh,  no  doubt  it's  her  husband." 

"  And  how  does  she  look?  " 


SMALL  SOULS  59 

"  Oh,  so-so !  Of  course,  she's  Ka-rel's  sis-ter,  but 
I  think  her  not  so  ve-ry  distin-guished." 

"Oh,  well,  I  think  her  rather  smart!"  growled 
Karel,  a  little  crossly. 

"  Oh,  Ka-rel!  .  .  .  Well,  smart,  if  you  like,  but 
not  what  I  call  good  ta-aste." 

"Rather  foreign,  I  suppose?"  asked  Anna  IJk- 
stra. 

"  Ye-es.  And  so  many  rings:  that's  what  I  don't 
like.  And  her  hair:  all  curled  and  waved,  puffed 
right  out,  you  know.  So  ridic-ulous  .  .  .  because 
she's  ve-ry  grey,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  really!" 

"Yes.  What  terrible  wea-ther,  An-na.  .  .  .  We 
ought  to  be  go-ing  on,  Ka-rel." 

"Where?"  growled  Karel.    , 

"  To  the  Van  Ra-vens." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  muttered  Karel.  "  It's  raining  so. 
.  .  .  And  I  have  to  get  out  all  the  time  and  ring  the 
bell." 

"  But  haven't  you  a  footman?  "  asked  Anna,  pre- 
tending not  to  know. 

"  I  say,  what  next!  "  muttered  Karel.  "  A  foot- 
man, indeed!  " 

"  But,  Ka-rel,  in  that  case,  let  us  just  go  on  to 
Constance'." 

"  Oh,  are  you  going  to  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke's?  " 

"  Yes,  we  must  re-ally  pay  her  a  vis-it,  to- 
day. .  .  ." 

"  Well,  come  along  then !  "  growled  Karel,  who 
was  irritable  without  knowing  why. 


6o  SMALL  SOULS 

And  they  drove  to  the  Hotel  des  Indes.  The  por- 
ter left  them  in  the  hall  for  a  moment,  then  showed 
them  up. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  come !  "  said  Constance. 
She  was  genuinely  pleased.  "  And  in  this  awful 
weather!  But,  as  you  see,  you  have  to  come  up  to 
my  bedroom.  I  have  no  sitting-room;  and  the  draw- 
ing-room is  such  a  bore.  Really,  it's  very  nice  of  you 
to  come,"  she  repeated,  "  and  in  this  rain,  too  1  Ad- 
riaan!  " 

"Yes,  Mamma!" 

"  Here  are  Uncle  Karel  and  Aunt  Cateau." 

She  beckoned  to  the  boy  to  come  from  his  room. 
She  was  smiling  with  happiness,  glad  to  see  the  faces 
of  her  brother  and  her  sister-in-law,  longing  for  the 
sympathy  of  family-affection,  thought  she  had  not 
known  Cateau  in  the  old  days. 

"Ah,  is  that  your  boy,  Con-stance?  .  .  .  Well, 
he  is  a  big  boy !  " 

11  How  d'ye  do,  Aunt?  How  d'ye  do,  Uncle?  " 
said  the  lad,  a  little  coldly  and  haughtily. 

"  Is  he  like  his  father?  "  asked  Karel. 

'  Yes,"  said  Constance,  grudgingly. 

Karel  and  Cateau  looked  at  Adriaan.  The  boy 
stood  bolt  upright  before  them,  a  strikingly  hand- 
some lad:  he  certainly  resembled  his  father;  he  had 
Van  der  Welcke's  regular  features,  his  round  head, 
his  short,  soft,  curly  hair.  At  thirteen,  an  age  when 
other  boys  are  overgrown,  gawky  and  clumsy  in  their 
ways,  he  was  not  tall,  but  well-proportioned  and 
rather  broadly  built,  with  a  pair  of  square  shoulders 


SMALL  SOULS  61 

in  his  blue  serge  jacket,  with  something  about  his 
gestures  and  movements  that  denoted  a  certain  man- 
liness and  self-possession,  uncommon  in  so  young  a 
boy.  He  tried  to  be  polite,  but  could  not  conceal  a 
certain  mistrust  of  this  unknown  uncle  and  aunt. 
His  small  mouth  was  firmly  closed;  his  eyes  stared 
fixedly,  dark-blue,  serious  and  cold. 

Constance  made  her  sister-in-law  and  brother  sit 
down: 

"  Forgive  all  this  muddle,"  she  said  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  was  taking  advantage  of  the  rainy  day  to  arrange 
rny  trunks  a  bit." 

Cateau  gave  a  sharp  glance  round:  there  were 
dresses  hanging  over  the  chairs  and  from  the  pegs; 
a  couple  of  hats  lay  on  a  table. 

"Oh,  Con-stance!"  said  Cateau;  and  she  felt  a 
little  impertinent  at  saying,  "  Constance,"  just  like 
that — she  had  married  Karel  after  Constance'  mar- 
riage to  De  Staffelaer  and  this  was  only  the  second 
time  that  she  had  seen  her  sister-in-law — and  had  it 
on  her  lips  to  say,  "  Mevrouw,"  instead.  "  Oh, 
Con-stance,  what  a  lot  of  clothes  you  have !  " 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Things  get  so  spoilt  in  one's 
trunks." 

"  /  haven't  as  many  dress-es  as  that,  have  I,  Ka- 
rel? But  what  I  have  is  re-ally  good.  But  yours 
are  good,  too,  Con-stance.  I  like  re-ally  good 
clothes.  .  .  .  Only,  such  a  lot  of  lace  would  fid-get 
me.  .  .  .  Bertha  dresses  well,  too.  .  .  .  But 
Adolph-ine.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  a  sight  she  al-ways 
looks!" 


62  SMALL  SOULS 

"  Does  she?  "  asked  Constance.  "  But  she  has  to 
consider  the  cost  of  things,  hasn't  she?  " 

"  I  have  only  two  dress-es  every  year;  but  those 
are  re-ally  good." 

"  And  will  Van  der  Welcke  be  here  soon?  "  asked 
Karel. 

"  On  Tuesday.  Then  we  shall  look  round  for  a 
house.  I  do  think  it  so  delightful  to  be  back  at  the 
Hague,  among  all  of  you.  I  see  Mamma  every  day. 
Yesterday,  I  was  at  Bertha's:  a  busy  household,  isn't 
it?  I  came  plump  into  the  middle  of  all  sorts  of 
rehearsals,  for  the  wedding.  And  I  was  at  Ger- 
rit's:  Adeline  is  a  dear;  and  oh,  how  I  laughed,  how 
I  laughed!  What  a  lot  of  children  I  I  can't  tell 
them  one  from  the  other  yet.  But  how  charming 
and  delightful,  that  fair-haired  little  woman,  with 
that  fair-haired  little  troop;  and  she's  expecting  an- 
other baby  this  summer!  And  Dorine  is  nice 
too.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  don't  know,  you  don't  know  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you  all !  We  are  a  big  family  and 
life  at  the  Hague  is  so  busy.  .  .  .  Look  at  Ber- 
tha. .  .  .  And  Gerrit  and  Adeline  too  are  busy  with 
their  little  troop.  .  .  .  But  I  do  hope  to  take  my 
place  among  you  all  again.  It  is  so  long  since  I  saw 
you  all!  Ah,  I  didn't  want  to  force  things! 
Mamma  did  come  to  see  me  twice  in  Brussels.  But 
my  brothers  and  sisters  .  .  .  No,  it  wasn't  kind 
of  you!  But  I  daresay  it  had  to  be!  Things  were 
as  they  were!  You  couldn't  very  well  respect  me, 
you  had  to  disown  me,  it  couldn't  be  helped!  .  .  . 
I  suffered  tortures,  all  those  years!  I  never  had 


SMALL  SOULS  63 

any  one  to  talk  to,  except  him,  my  little  son!  It 
wasn't  right  of  Mamma,  was  it,  Addie,  to  be  always 
talking  to  you?  But  I  couldn't  speak  out  to  Henri, 
to  Van  der  Welcke.  Oh,  we  are  very  good  friends, 
quite  good  friends!  ...  I  can't  tell  you  how,  all 
of  a  sudden,  I  longed  for  the  Hague,  for  my  family, 
for  the  people  I  used  to  know,  for  all  of  you,  for 
everything!  I  always  wrote  to  Mamma  regularly; 
and  Mamma  gave  me  all  the  news,  sent  me  the  pho- 
tographs of  my  little  nephews  and  nieces.  And  yet 
my  brain's  whirling,  now  that  I  am  seeing  you  all. 
There  are  such  a  lot  of  us :  I  don't  think  there  can  be 
many  families  as  big  as  ours.  Bertha's  alone  is 
a  big  household.  .  .  .  Fancy  Bertha  a  grand- 
mother! .  .  .  It's  dreadful,  how  old  we're  grow- 
ing! I  am  forty-two!  Oh,  I  couldn't  have  gone  on 
living  in  Brussels!  We  had  no  one  left  there:  our 
friends  were  scattered,  gone  away.  Van  der  Welcke, 
too,  was  beginning  to  long  for  Holland,  for  Addie's 
sake  as  well  as  his  own.  Addie  speaks  very  good 
Dutch,  though :  I  always  made  him  keep  it  up.  He 
has  a  bit  of  a  Flemish  accent,  perhaps :  what  do  you 
think,  Addie?  .  .  .  We  had  a  Flemish  serv- 
ant. .  .  .  Oh,  what  a  lot  I  have  to  tell  you !  "  she 
laughed,  happily.  "  Nothing  interesting,  you  know, 
but  I  feel  as  if  I  must  tell  you  everything,  talk  and 
talk  and  talk  to  you,  to  all  of  you,  my  brothers,  my 
sisters !  "  She  suddenly  got  up.  "  Karel,  do  you 
remember,  in  India,  how  we  used  to  play  in  the  river, 
behind  the  Palace;  how  we  walked  on  those  great 
stone  boulders,  you  and  I  and  Gerrit?  We  three 


64  SMALL  SOULS 

always  played  together.  Yes,  Bertha  had  been  mar- 
ried a  year  or  two,  while  we  were  still  children.  Is 
Bertha  fifty  yet?  She's  quite  grey!  I'm  going  grey 
myself !  .  .  .  Dear  Bertha !  .  .  .  And  Louis  and 
Gertrude,  who  died  at  Buitenzorg.  .  .  .  Do  you 
remember,  Karel?  It  was  we  three  who  were  al- 
ways together.  You  used  to  carry  me  over  the  water 
on  your  back.  How  naughty  we  were !  I  was  quite 
thirteen  or  fourteen,  at  that  time.  .  .  .  And  things 
are  so  funny,  in  India:  next  year,  I  was  in  long 
frocks  and  going  to  the  balls.  ...  I  thought  it  de- 
lightful, all  that  grandeur:  the  aides-de-camp;  the 
national  anthem  wherever  we  went:  I  used  to  im- 
agine that  they  played  it  for  me,  the  viceroy's  little 
daughter!  .  .  .  Yes,  Van  Naghel  was  at  the  bar 
then,  at  Semarang;  Bertha  didn't  come  in  for  any  of 
it.  ...  Oh,  it's  past  now,  my  vanity!  That 
shows  you  how  a  person  changes.  You  are  changed, 
too,  Karel :  you  have  become  so  sedate,  so  dignified. 
What  a  pity  you  are  no  longer  a  burgomaster :  you're 
cut  out  for  it,  Karel !  " 

She  tried  to  speak  lightly,  suddenly  feeling  that 
she  was  talking  too  much  about  herself,  letting  her- 
self go,  while  Karel  and  Cateau  sat  staring  at  her. 
And  yet  she  cared  for  them:  was  not  Karel  her 
brother,  who  had  always  been  bracketed  with  Gerrit 
in  her  childhood  memories,  and  was  not  Cateau  his 
wife,  though  she  had  not  a  sympathetic  face,  with 
those  great  round  eyes  of  hers?  Were  they  not 
members  of  the  family,  for  which  she  had  longed  so? 
She  tried  to  speak  playfully,  after  her  all-too-spon- 


SMALL  SOULS  65 

taneous  outpouring;  but  she  suddenly  felt  that  this 
was  out  of  tune  too.  She  felt  that,  after  all,  she  had 
not  seen  her  brother  for  twenty  years,  not  since  the 
day  of  her  marriage  to  De  Staffelaer,  and  that  they 
had  become  as  utter  strangers  to  each  other.  She 
felt  that  she  did  not  know  Cateau  at  all.  And  so, 
though  Karel  and  Cateau  were  her  brother  and  sis- 
ter, they  were  also  strangers.  But  that  was  just 
what  she  did  not  want :  she  wanted  to  win  them  all, 
the  whole  family;  to  feel  that  they  were  all  warm- 
hearted and  indulgent  towards  her.  .  .  .  And  she 
spoke  of  Mamma,  of  the  Sunday  evenings,  of 
Mamma's  mania  for  the  family,  which  she  herself 
now  felt  so  strongly,  intensified  as  it  had  been  in 
those  lonely,  joyless  Brussels  years.  She  asked  their 
advice  about  taking  a  house  at  the  Hague. 

"  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  consult  an  es- 
tate-agent," said  Karel.  "There's  one  close  by; 
he'll  know  about  all  the  houses  to  let." 

"  It  will  be  difficult  to  find  the  right  thing,"  said 
Constance.  "  We  had  a  pretty  flat  at  Brussels;  and 
I  really  prefer  a  flat  to  a  house.  But  there  aren't 
any  in  Holland." 

"  Oh,  Con-stance!"  said  Cateau,  round-eyed. 
"  Don't  you  find  a  flat  ve-ry  stuff-y?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  and  I  love  to  have  everything  on  one 
floor.  I  don't  care  for  maids  running  up  and  down 
the  stairs." 

1  Yes,  but  the  place  must  be  kept  clean." 

;<  Well,  it  was.  .  .  .  Only,  in  a  flat,  abroad,  the 
bell  doesn't  keep  ringing  as  it  does  at  one's  front- 


66  SMALL  SOULS 

door  in  Holland.  The  cook  goes  to  market  in  the 
morning.  .  .  ." 

"  And  does  she  just  buy  ev-erything?  " 

"  She  buys  enough  for  a  couple  of  days :  vegeta- 
bles and  eggs  and  whatever  she  wants." 

"  Do  you  leave  that  to  the  cook?" 

"  Oh,  yes!  Imagine  if  I  didn't!  "  laughed  Con- 
stance. "She  simply  couldn't  understand  it!  I 
used  only  to  give  her  a  few  instructions." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that  I  don't  think  that  at  all 
a  prdp-er  way  of  house-keeping!  .  .  .  Do  you, 
Kar-el?" 

"  It's  the  way  of  the  country,"  growled  Karel,  un- 
der his  breath.  "  Were  you  thinking  of  looking  for 
a  house  in  one  of  the  new  districts,  Duinoord,  for  in- 
stance? " 

"  I'd  rather  not  be  so  far  from  all  of  you." 

"  Dear  Con-stance !  "  laughed  Cateau,  with  her 
round  face.  "  But  we  all  live  more  or  less  far  from 
one  ano-therl  " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door:  the  porter  showed 
Adolphine  in. 

"  Ah,  Adolphine!  How  nice  of  you  to  come,  all 
the  more  as  we  are  to  meet  at  Mamma's  this  evening. 
You're  a  good  sister."  And  she  kissed  Adolphine. 
"  This  is  my  boy.  I  brought  him  to  see  you  the 
other  day,  but  you  were  out." 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Aunt?  "  said  Addle,  stiffly. 

"  Forgive  the  muddle,  Adolphine.  I  was  just 
unpacking  my  trunks." 

"  We  ought  re-ally  to  be  go-ing  on,  Ka-rel." 


SMALL  SOULS  67 

"  Are  you  going  so  soon?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  rain-ing  so;  and  the  brougham  is  get- 
ting so  we-et." 

"  Constance,"  said  Karel.  "  Did  you  say  that 
Van  der  Welcke  would  be  here  on  Tuesday?  " 

"  I  expect  so." 

"  Well,  then,  give  him  my  kind  regards  and  .  .  . 
and  would  you  give  him  my  card?  Then  that'll  be 
all  right."  ' 

He  took  a  visiting-card  from  his  pocket-book  and 
laid  it  on  a  corner  of  the  console-table.  Constance 
looked  at  him  in  momentary  perplexity.  She  could 
not  speak  for  a  second  or  two,  did  not  understand. 
She  herself  had  been  brought  up  and  had  lived  ac- 
cording to  very  punctilious  rules  of  card-leaving;  but 
yet  she  failed  to  understand  how  one  brother-in-law 
could  leave  a  card  on  another  brother-in-law,  before 
that  other  was  in  town  and  during  a  visit  paid  in  his 
sister's  bedroom,  amid  all  the  muddle  of  her  un- 
packed trunks.  But  she  had  been  so  long  away  from 
Holland  and  the  Hague;  she  did  not  wish  it  to  ap- 
pear that  she  did  not  understand;  and,  as  a  woman 
of  the  world,  she  did  not,  above  all,  wish  it  to  ap- 
pear that  she  thought  Karel's  performance  with  the 
card  not  only  stiff,  but  intensely  vulgar. 

She  said,  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"  Thank  you,  Karel.  Van  de  Welcke  will  appre- 
ciate your  call  greatly." 

Her  voice  sounded  friendly  and  natural;  and 
neither  Karel  nor  Cateau  had  any  idea  that  Con- 
stance had  controlled  herself  as  she  had  sometimes 


68  SMALL  SOULS 

had  to  control  herself  in  Rome,  in  a  diplomatic 
salon  full  of  intrigue  and  polished  envy. 

In  the  brougham,  Cateau  said: 

"  You  did  that  very  clev-erly,  Ka-rel,  with  that 
card.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  it  the  best  way,"  said  Kartl,  in  a 
burgomasterly  manner.  , 


CHAPTER  VI 

ADOLPHINE  looked  enviously  around  her.  What  a 
lot  Constance  must  spend  on  her  clothes;  and  it  was 
not  as  if  they  were  well  off  either,  for  all  they  had  to 
live  on  was  an  allowance  from  Papa  and  Mamma 
van  der  Welcke,  the  money  which  Constance  had  in- 
herited from  her  father  and  the  little  that  Van  der 
Welcke  could  scrape  together  at  Brussels,  as  a  wine- 
and  insurance-agent.  Nothing  to  speak  of,  all  told: 
that  Adolphine  knew  for  a  fact.  She  admired  in 
particular  a  magnificent  fur  bolero  and  wondered 
what  two  kinds  of  fur  it  was  made  of;  but  she  said 
nothing:  she  never  praised  anything  in  another,  not 
his  raiment,  nor  his  intellect,  nor  his  virtues.  Even 
if  she  had  had  anything  to  gain  by  it,  she  could  never 
have  brought  herself  to  say : 

"  Constance,  what  a  pretty  bolero  that  is!  " 
But,  pale  with  envy,  she  kept  looking  at  the  fur 
as  it  hung  over  a  chair;  and  the  sight  of  it  caused 
her  almost  physical  pain,  because  it  was  not  hers  and 
she  did  not  know  how  one  like  it  ever  could  be 
hers. 

Constance  was  rather  tired.  First,  she  had  been 
unpacking  trunks  with  Addle;  then  Karel  and  Cateau 
had  come  and  she  had  talked  copiously  in  the  pleas- 
ure and  excitement  of  seeing  them.  But  that  visit- 
ing-card of  Karel's  had  depressed  her;  and  now  she 
talked  listlessly: 

69 


70  SMALL  SOULS 

"  So  your  girl  is  going  to  be  married  soon,  Adol- 
phine?  " 

"  In  May." 

"  I  haven't  seen  either  of  them  since  Sunday.  A 
couple  of  days  ago,  I  found  their  cards  and  Dijker- 
hof's.  How  quickly  a  week  passes!  I  didn't  find 
any  of  you  at  home  either." 

"  We  are  so  busy  shopping  all  day  long,  for  the 
trousseau." 

"  Is  Dijkerhof  a  nice  fellow?  " 

"  Yes;  and  they  are  a  very  good  family." 

As  it  happened,  the  Dijkerhofs  were  not  in  quite 
the  same  set  as  the  Van  Lowes;  and  Mamma  van 
Lowe  was  not  over-enthusiastic  about  the  engage- 
ment. 

Constance  was  silent:  she  was  tired,  she  had  a 
headache  and  she  thought  that  Adolphine  had  better 
keep  the  conversation  going.  But  Adolphine  was 
too  much  distracted  by  the  bolero  to  be  in  form. 
She  cast  about  for  a  subject.  And  yet  there  were 
plenty,  for  she  was  dying  of  curiosity  to  know  all 
sorts  of  things :  for  instance,  what  Constance  thought 
of  Bertha  and  Cateau.  If  only  that  wretched  bolero 
were  not  there!  At  last,  she  began: 

"  So  you're  looking  for  a  house?  " 

Constance  answered  at  random;  and,  because  of 
her  headache,  her  expression  became  stiff  and 
haughty  and  her  lips  were  tightly  compressed. 
Adolphine  thought  her  arrogant  and  reflected  that 
Constance  had  always  been  stuck-up,  after  her  mar- 
riage to  De  Staffelaer  and  all  the  smart  societv  in 


SMALL  SOULS  71 

Rome.  Adolphine  suspected  Constance  of  looking 
down  upon  her;  and  Constance  merely  had  a  head- 
ache. 

"  And  shall  you  call  on  many  people?  " 

No,  Constance  thought  not. 

"  Won't  you  go  to  Court?  " 

No,  Constance  hadn't  given  it  a  thought. 

"  Is  your  boy  going  to  the  high-school?  " 

No,  he  was  to  pass  his  examination  for  the  gram- 
mar-school: Van  der  Welcke  wanted  him  to  go  to 
one  of  the  universities,  later. 

"  What  photographs  are  those?  " 

"  Friends  of  ours,  in  Brussels." 

"  Had  you  many  friends  there?  " 

"  Not  so  many,  latterly." 

Suddenly  Constance'  eyes  met  Adolphine's.  And 
Constance  did  not  see  Adolphine's  hateful  hostility: 
Constance  saw  only  her  sister,  four  years  younger 
than  herself,  but  worn  out  by  a  tiresome,  difficult  life, 
a  life  full  of  money-bothers,  full  of  trouble  with 
spoilt,  disagreeable  children,  receiving  no  assistance 
from  her  husband,  Van  Saetzema,  who  was  chief 
clerk  at  the  Ministry  of  Justice;  Constance  saw  her 
sister,  thin,  yellow,  eaten  up  with  worry  and  bitter- 
ness, in  her  almost  shabby  and  yet  pretentious 
clothes.  And,  notwithstanding  her  raging  headache, 
she  was  filled  with  pity,  because  Adolphine  was  her 
sister.  She  rose  and  went  to  Adolphine: 

"  Phine,"  she  said,  frankly,  "  don't  be  angry  if  I 
am  not  very  talkative,  but  I  have  such  a  headache. 
And  I  really  do  think  it  nice  of  you  to  look  me  up. 


72  SMALL  SOULS 

Come  often.  Let  us  see  a  lot  of  each  other.  I  only 
came  to  the  Hague  because  of  you  all.  I  wanted 
you  so  badly.  I  have  dragged  through  so  mlny 
dreary  years.  I  have  no  one  in  my  life,  except  my 
boy.  And  he  is  still  so  young;  and  I  tell  him  too 
much  as  it  is.  I  have  been  very  unhappy,  Adolphine, 
Phine.  Be  nice  to  me,  be  a  little  fond  of  your  Con- 
stance. She  did  not  always  behave  as  she  should, 
she  did  not  always  behave  as  she  should.  But  for- 
give her,  forgive  her  the  past,"  she  whispered,  more 
softly,  so  that  Addie  should  not  hear.  "  Forgive 
her  that  past  which  is  always  there,  which  has  never 
become  the  past  for  good  and  all.  Forgive  her  .  .  . 
and  love  her  a  little !  " 

She  burst  into  nervous  sobs  and,  impulsively,  knelt 
down  by  her  sister  and  laid  her  head  on  her  breast 
and  felt  how  poor  and  thin  Adolphine  was  in  her 
arms.  A  damp  smell  of  rain  was  steaming  from  her 
muddy  dress. 

"  Dear  Constance ! "  said  Adolphine,  really 
touched.  "  Certainly,  I  care  for  you.  And  that 
past  was  so  long  ago:  we  have  all  of  us  forgotten 
about  it." 

But  Constance  sobbed  and  sobbed. 

"  Mamma !  "  said  Addie. 

She  drew  him  to  her  also,  held  her  sister  and  her 
boy  in  a  close  embrace. 

"  Come,  Constance.  .  .  ." 

"  Mamma,  don't  cry.  .  .  .  You  always  have 
such  a  headache,  Mummy,  after  crying  like  that." 

She  controlled  herself,  stood  up;  and  Adolphine 


SMALL  SOULS  73 

found  a  few  kind  words.  Adolphine  was  certainly 
touched,  but  she  was  cross  about  that  bolero  and, 
besides,  she  found  Addie  better-looking,  more  taking, 
almost,  than  any  of  her  own  three  ugly,  lubberly 
boys.  However,  she  kissed  Constance  and  arranged 
for  Constance  to  come  and  take  tea  with  her  next 
evening.  When  Constance  was  a  little  calmer  and 
had  laughed  a  little  through  her  tears,  Adolphine 
took  her  leave  with  a  warm  kiss: 

"  And  I'll  just  leave  Van  Saetzema's  card,  shall  I, 
Constance,  here,  by  Karel's,  for  Van  der  Welcke? 
Then  he'll  get  it  when  he  arrives.  .  .  ." 

She  put  down  the  card  and,  suddenly  unable  to  re- 
strain herself,  went,  as  though  in  passing,  to  the 
bolero,  looked  at  it  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  bore  no 
resemblance  to  the  envious  thoughts  that  still  smoul- 
dered in  her  heart: 

"  But,  Constance !  .  .  .  Do  you  still  wear  those 
short  little  jackets?" 

"Oh,  they've  been  the  fashion  so  long!"  an- 
swered Constance,  still  thinking  of  the  visiting-cards. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know :  they'd  be  too  short  for  me, 
at  my  age,  I  think !  " 

Seeing  that  she  was  younger  than  Constance,  the 
remark  was  not  only  unkind,  but  dishonest;  and 
Adolphine,  now  satisfied,  went  away. 

Constance  stared  at  the  two  visiting-cards  and  sud- 
denly burst  out  sobbing  again. 

Addie  took  her  in  his  arms.  He  was  already 
nearly  as  tall  as  she  was : 

"  Mamma,"  he  said,  gently,  with  his  resolute  lad's 


74  SMALL  SOULS 

voice,  "  don't  cry  so;  and  go  and  lie  down  a  little. 
You  have  to  go  to  Grandmamma's  to-night;  and 
you'll  be  too  tired  if  you  don't  rest  first." 

And  he  helped  her  to  take  off  some  of  her  things 
and  settled  her  pillows  for  her. 

She  lay  on  the  bed,  sobbing  convulsively,  without 
really  remembering  why. 

The  boy  sat  down  by  the  window,  near  the  con- 
sole-table, and  took  up  his  book,  a  story  of  the  Boer 
war.  A  movement  of  his  arm  sent  the  two  cards 
over.  He  just  glanced  down  at  them,  at  those  two 
pieces  of  paste-board  formalism,  let  them  lie  on  the 
carpet  and  went  on  reading.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

THAT  evening,  Constance  played  bridge,  though  her 
head  was  still  very  bad.  At  Mamma  van  Lowe's 
request,  she  had  brought  Addle  with  her;  and  he  had 
joined  his  boy-  and  girl-cousins  in  their  round  games. 
Constance  was  playing  with  Bertha,  Gerrit  and 
Uncle  Ruyvenaer. 

"  Constance,"  said  Bertha,  "  you  mustn't  think  me 
unkind  for  only  coming  once  to  see  you — and  when 
you  were  out  too — but  I  am  so  busy.  I  have  sent 
you  your  invitation  to-day  for  the  wedding-func- 
tions. You'll  come,  of  course,  won't  you  ?  " 

Bertha  was  the  eldest  daughter,  Mrs.  van  Naghel 
van  Voorde;  her  husband  was  secretary  for  the  col- 
onies; in  their  house,  Constance  had  at  once  felt 
something  of  her  father's  house,  in  the  old  days:  a 
big  family;  a  circle  which  took  a  faint  colonial  tinge 
from  the  presence  of  the  great  Indian  officials  home 
from  Java.  Van  Naghel  had  made  his  career 
through  the  protection  of  his  father-in-law,  the  late 
viceroy;  and  their  set  also  just  grazed  the  edge  of 
the  diplomatic  world  and,  of  course,  included  a  num- 
ber of  the  chief  officials  of  the  home  government  as 
well.  ,  Although  Constance  had  beeYi  only  once,  as 
yet,  to  their  house,  in  the  midst  of  the  bustle  of  re- 
hearsals for  the  wedding-theatricals,  she  at  once 
felt  something  congenial  there,  something  that  was 
familiar  to  her,  something  of  her  former  home:  an 

75 


76  SMALL  SOULS 

atmosphere  of  distinction,  of  importance,  which  she 
had  not  known  for  many  years  past,  but  to  which 
she  yet  felt  herself  drawn  through  the  innate,  in- 
stinctive vanity  which  she  imagined  was  dead  in  her. 

Constance  was  happy,  though  she  still  had  a  head- 
ache. Uncle  Ruyvenaer  was  fussy  but  gay,  because 
he  was  winning,  with  Gerrit  for  his  partner.  Bertha 
and  Constance,  their  thoughts  both  far  from  the 
cards,  went  on  talking,  played  badly.  Bertha  was 
almost  entirely  grey,  greyer  even  than  Mamma  van 
Lowe.  She  had  a  rather  ceremonious  face  and  re- 
sembled her  father:  she  had  his  hard,  stiff  features, 
his  hard,  dark  eyes,  his  thin  lips.  Her  eyes  were  al- 
ways blinking,  as  though  she  had  a  difficulty  in 
seeing.  And  in  her  manner  of  talking  there  was 
something  abstracted,  as  though  she  were  always 
thinking  of  something  else.  She  was  well-dressed, 
simply,  in  good  taste. 

"I  think  it  so  nice  that  your  house  is  a  sort  of 
replica  of  our  old  house,  when  we  were  children," 
said  Constance. 

"Yes,"  said  Bertha.     "What  are  trumps?" 

"  You  went  diamonds  yourself,"  said  Gerrit,  the 
cavalry-captain,  tall,  broad-chested  and  fair.  "  At- 
tend to  your  game,  Sis." 

"  And  you  have  a  very  busy  home,  I  suppose, 
Bertha?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Bertha,  "  very  busy." 

And  she  played  the  wrong  card. 

"  I  have  known  all  that  bustle  myself,"  said  Con- 
stance. "  It  was  like  that  in  Rome,  terribly  busy : 


SMALL  SOULS  77 

four  or  five  things  every  day  which  you  couldn't  pos- 
sibly avoid.  .  .  ." 

Bertha  smiled  vaguely;  and  Constance  suddenly 
felt  that  she  mustn't  talk  about  Rome.  She  winced: 
she  could  not  mention  De  Staffelaer's  name,  must 
ignore  all  that  period  of  importance.  ...  It  sud- 
denly upset  her  nerves,  for  she  had  not  reflected 
that,  even  among  her  brothers  and  sisters,  she  would 
have  to  be  careful,  to  exercise  tact.  She  had  come 
to  them  just  because  she  wanted  to  be  able  to  let 
herself  go,  to  be  frank  and  natural;  but  she  felt 
strongly  that  Bertha  disapproved  of  her  for  ventur- 
ing to  refer  to  Rome.  She  would  have  liked  to 
talk  about  Rome,  partly  from  vanity,  to  remind  her 
sister,  the  wife  of  a  minister,  who  was  "  in  the  move- 
ment," that  she  too  had  known  greatness  and  lived 
in  the  midst  of  it.  But  she  felt  that  she  must  be 
humble,  that  she  was  nothing  more  than  Mrs.  van 
der  Welcke,  the  sister  who  had  made  a  false  step 
in  life,  who  had  married  her  "  lover "  and  who, 
years  after,  had  been  taken  into  favour  by  the  char- 
ity of  the  family.  This  was  clearly  expressed  in 
Bertha's  hard,  ceremonious  Van  Lowe  face,  with 
the  blinking  eyes,  even  though  Bertha  spoke  not  a 
word. 

Constance  was  silent,  went  on  playing;  Uncle  Ruy- 
venaer  was  noisy,  cracked  his  jokes: 

'  The   queen   falls,"   he   said,    in   his   fat  voice. 
"  One  more  unfortunate !  "  he  shouted,  clamorously. 

And,  playing  his  ace,  with  a  wide  sweep  of  his 
hand  he  gathered  in  the  trick.  Constance  went 


78  SMALL  SOULS 

pale;  and  Bertha  blinked  her  eyes  till  they  closed  en- 
tirely. But  Bertha  was  too  much  used  to  Uncle's 
astounding  vulgarities  to  be  much  disturbed  by  them 
and  she  answered  her  partner's  call  correctly. 

Constance  kept  her  presence  of  mind,  played  her 
cards.  She  could  have  burst  into  one  of  her  nerv- 
ous fits  of  sobbing,  but  she  restrained  herself,  know- 
ing that  Uncle  was  tactless,  noisy  and  common,  but 
that  he  would  never  hurt  her  wilfully.  And  she  was 
grateful  to  Gerrit  when  he  came  to  her  assistance : 

'  What  a  nice  lad  that  boy  of  yours  is,  Con- 
stance." 

"MyAddie?     Yes." 

"  A  bit  dignified  for  his  years,  but  otherwise  a 
fine  little  chap." 

"  He's  always  very  good  to  me.  We  both  dote 
on  him." 

'  You  must  let  him  come  to  us  often.  Our  house 
is  one  big  nursery;  and  he'll  keep  young  among  that 
troop  of  mine." 

'  Very  well,  Gerrit,  gladly.  It's  very  kind  of 
you." 

"  What  is  he  going  to  be?  " 

"  Van  der  Welcke  wants  him  to  go  to  the  uni- 
versity first  and  then  into  the  diplomatic  service." 

"Is  that  his  line?" 

"  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  He's  a  little  too  stiff,  per- 
haps. .  .  .  But  he's  so  young  still." 

"  Send  him  to  lunch  with  us  on  Wednesday;  and 
then  he  can  go  for  a  walk  with  my  crowd." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  tell  him." 


SMALL  SOULS  79 

"  Yes,"  said  Bertha,  more  cordially,  as  though 
waking  from  a  dream.  "  He's  a  charming  boy,  only 
a  little  stiff." 

"  He's  still  rather  strange  here." 

"  He  is  very  polite,"  said  Bertha,  "  but  distant. 
He  has  very  nice  manners,  but,  when  he  says,  c  How 
d'ye  do,  Aunt?  '  it  sounds  as  if  he  were  talking  to  a 
stranger." 

"  Oh,  Bertha,  he  is  meeting  such  a  lot  of  new 
uncles  and  aunts  all  at  once !  " 

"  He  is  a  very  nice  boy.  A  handsome  little  fel- 
low. Is  he  like  his  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Constance,  grudgingly. 

She  felt  again  that  the  past  had  cropped  up  once 
more.  She  felt  that  Bertha  was  thinking  that  Van 
der  Welcke  was  a  very  good-looking  man — she  had 
seen  his  portrait  at  Mamma's — and  that  was  why 
Constance  had  fallen  in  love  with  him. 

But  Gerrit  laughed: 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  in  such  a  funny  way, 
Sissy?" 

"Did  I?" 

"  One  would  think  that  you  did  not  approve  of 
your  son's  taking  after  his  father!  " 

Constance  was  grateful:  Gerrit  was  so  easy,  so 
natural;  and  she  laughed: 

"  What  nonsense !  " 

"Do  you  think  I  can't  hear?  'Is  he  like  his 
father?'  'Ye-e-es!'  .  .  ." 

Of  a  sudden,  she  became  very  sincere,  with  Gerrit : 

"  Did  I  speak  like  that?     Yes,  it's  silly  of  me,  but 


8o  SMALL  SOULS 

I  am  a  little  jealous  of  Van  der  Welcke,  where  Ad- 
die  is  concerned.  Silly  of  me, Isn't  it?  " 

Bertha  looked  severe,  blinked  her  eyes.  Uncle 
gathered  in  trick  after  trick: 

"  Game  and  rubber  to  us.  We'll  carry  on  the 
stakes,  shall  we?  " 

The  sandwiches  and  drinks  went  round. 

"  Gerrit,"  sard  Constance,  as  she  moved  her  chair 
beside  his,  "  you're  happy,  aren't  you,  in  your  house, 
with  your  little  wife  and  your  children?  " 

Gerrit  looked  surprised: 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  I  had  the  impression." 

"  But  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"Well,  aren't  you?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  of  course.  Of  course  I  am,  of 
course  I  am.  Adeline  1 " 

He  beckoned  to  his  wife,  a  plump,  fair-haired  lit- 
tle doll,  a  dear,  sweet  little  woman  of  twenty-eight: 
she  had  seven  children  already,  because  Gerrit,  who 
had  married  rather  late  in  life,  said  that  he  must 
make  up  for  lost  time  and  get  a  whole  troop  to- 
gether. 

"  Constance  wants  to  know  if  we're  happy." 

"Silly  Constance!  Why,  of  course  we  are  I" 
said  Adeline. 

"  You  have  a  dear  little  troop  of  children." 

"  Your  boy  is  a  darling,  too." 

They  smiled,  happy  in  their  offspring.  Gerrit, 
restless,  moved  his  big  limbs  almost  violently: 

"  Children,   that's   the   one   thing   in   life  I "   he 


SMALL  SOULS  81 

shouted.  "  We  don't  mean  to  leave  off  till  we  have 
a  dozen,  do  we,  Line?  " 

"  Gerrit,  you're  quite  mad !  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  say,  Constance,  why  leave  that  lad  of 
yours  all  by  himself?  It's  not  good  for  a  child." 

"  No,  Gerrit,  it's  best  as  it  is.  It  would  not  make 
us  any  happier  to  have  a  lot  of  children." 

"  I  say,  you  were  indiscreet  enough  to  ask  if  we 
were  happy;  now  it's  my  turn.  I  don't  believe  that 
you  and  your  husband  get  on  so  very  well  together." 

"  Oh,  well,  we  understand  each  other!  Perhaps 
not  even  that !  But  Addie  keeps  us  together.  We 
both  dote  on  him.  Van  der  Welcke  dotes  on  his 
boy.  So  do  I.  So  do  I.  He  is  everything,  both  to 
him  .  .  .  and  to  me.  .  .  ."  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "  We  are  nothing  now  ...  to  each  other!  " 
She  was  sitting  between  Gerrit  and  Adeline.  "  I 
did  so  want  all  of  you  I  "  she  continued,  taking  each 
of  them  by  the  hand.  "  Be  nice  to  me,  will  you? 
I  am  simply  pining  for  affection.  My  child  is  all  to 
me,  but  he  is  still  so  young;  and  I  tell  him  too  much 
as  it  is.  ...  Heavens,  what  a  life  I  have  had  these 
last  few  years !  No,  you  were  not  kind !  Why  did 
you  never,  never  once  come  to  me,  in  Brussels?  " 

"  But,  Constance  dear,"  said  Gerrit,  "  if  we  had 
only  known  that  you  would  have  liked  us  to!  Re- 
member, you  never  sent  us  a  line.  You  only  wrote 
to  Mamma ;  and  she  did  go  to  see  you  once  or  twice. 
Own  up :  we  had  become  strangers." 

"  Let  us  be  friends  again,  then!  Be  nice  to  me! 
Your  dear  little  wife  .  .  I  don't  know  her.  .  .  . 


82  SMALL  SOULS 

But  you  are  my  sister,  too,  Adeline,  are  you  not? 
Be  a  little  fond  of  me." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  Constance.     And  let  us  see  a  lot 
of  each  other." 

"  Tell  me,  Gerrit;  what  is  Bertha  like  now?  " 

"  Bertha  is  very  nice.     Bertha  is  an  exemplary 

mother,  an  excellent  wife.     Bertha  has  a  busy  life. 

They  do  a  great  deal  of  good,  they  live  for  their 

children,  they  see  heaps  of  people.     They  are  in  the 

upper  ten,  or,  rather,  the  upper  two  or  three  of  the 

Hague.     We  are  not,  you  know.     And  we  never  go 

to  their  big  dinners;  we  are  not  in  their  set  at  all." 

"  I   don't  even  go  to   Bertha's  at-homes,"   said 

Adeline. 

"  And  yet  we  are  very  good  friends.  And  Ber- 
tha is  very  nice;  and,  when  Adeline  is  expecting  a 
baby,  which  is  the  usual  state  of  affairs  with  us, 
Bertha  is  just  like  a  mother.  But  she  and  her  hus- 
band live  in  their  own  circle,  which  is  very  big  and 
busy  and  important  and  smart  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 
"  So  Adolphine  and  Van  Saetzema  .  .  .?  " 
"  Oh,  you  needn't  ask:  they  don't  go  to  their  din- 
ners, at-homes,  balls,  etcetera,  either.  And  that 
makes  Adolphine  furious.  But  we  don't  care  in  the 
least." 

"  And  Aunt  and  Uncle  Ruyvenaer?  " 
"  They  go  to  the  at-home  days,"  laughed  Adeline, 
"  but  not  to  the  dinners.     And  they  have  their  own 
little  Indian  clique,  which  is  very  lively,  but  of  course 
a  thing  quite  by  itself." 


SMALL  SOULS  83 

"  Yes,"  reflected  Constance.  "  A  big  family  like 
ours  necessarily  has  all  sorts  of  sections.  .  .  ." 

"  And  that  is  why  Mamma  is  so  devoted  to  her 
4  family-group,'  in  which  all  the  different  elements 
meet." 

"  Sometimes  we  don't  see  one  another  for  weeks 
and  months  at  a  time,  except  on  those  Sunday  even- 
ings. .  .  ." 

"  And  tell  me:  Karel  and  Cateau.  .  .  ." 

"  Ka-rel  and  Ca-teau,"  said  Gerrit,  mimicking  Ca- 
teau, "  live  ve-ry  com-fortably  and  have  ve-ry  nice 
little  din-ners  all  by  their  lit-tle  selves,  don't  they, 
Adel-ine?" 

They  laughed. 

"  I  was  always  fond  of  Karel,"  said  Constance. 
"  Of  Karel  and  you,  Gerrit.  .  .  .  Do  you  remem- 
ber, in  the  river,  behind  the  Palace  at  Buiten- 
zorg.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  long,  seeking  their  childish  past 
in  her  eyes: 

"  Yes,  you  were  a  pretty  child  then.  You  used  to 
act  all  sorts  of  fairy-tales  with  us,  among  those  great, 
spreading  leaves:  stories  of  a  princess  and  fairies 
and  knights  and  I  don't  know  what.  You  were  a 
darling  of  a  child:  such  a  dainty,  pale  little  elf,  in  your 
white  cotton  baadjet * ;  and  your  brothers  were  in  love 
with  you.  .  .  .  But  two  years  later,  when  I  was  a 
boy  of  sixteen  and  you  fifteen,  you  suddenly  became 
a  stuck-up  girl,  in  a  long  ball-dress,  and  you  refused 

1 A  diminutive  of  kabaai,  a  native  jacket  with  sleeves. 


84  SMALL  SOULS 

to  dance  with  any  one  except  old  staff-officers  and  the 
secretary-general.  .  .  ." 

"  And  what  am  I  now?  "  she  asked,  smiling,  with 
her  soul  full  of  sadness. 

"  The  lost  sister  .  .  .  found  again." 

"  Yes,  the  lost  sister,  indeed!  " 

"  Come,  Sissy,  not  so  gloomy  I  " 

"  My  life  has  been  hard  to  bear." 

"  But  you  have  your  boy,  your  child.  Children 
are  everything." 

",My  life  has  been  nothing  but  mistake  upon  mis- 
take. And  I  am  so  afraid  that  I  sha'n't  bring  up  my 
boy  properly." 

"  Then  leave  that  to  your  husband!  "  said  Gerrit, 
man-like. 

"Oh,  really?"  said  Adeline.  "Is  she  to  leave 
that  to  her  husband?  " 

"  Yes,  Adeline.  Just  as  we  do.  I  the  boys,  you 
the  girls." 

"Oh,  really?" 

"  But,  Gerrit,  if  I  leave  Addie  to  Van  der  Welcke, 
I  shall  have  nothing  left,  nothing." 

"  Then  be  bolder  and  have  no  fear." 

"Oh,  life  is  sometimes  so  difficult!  ...  So, 
Adeline,  Gerrit,  you  will  care  a  little  for  your  lost 
sister  who  has  been  found  again?" 

Adeline  kissed  Constance. 

Mamma  van  Lowe  approached,  radiant,  as  always, 
at  the  "  family-group  "  which  she  had  brought  to- 
gether. 


SMALL  SOULS  85 

"  Mamma,  I  am  so  glad,  so  happy,  to  be  among 
you  all !  "  murmured  Constance. 

The  maids  entered  with  the  coats  and  wraps. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Two  days  later,  Addle  went  to  meet  his  father  at 
the  station. 

"Daddy,  Daddy!"  he  shouted,  as  Van  der 
Welcke  stepped  from  the  train. 

They  embraced;  Van  der  Welcke  was  much 
moved,  because  it  was  fifteen  years  since  he  had  been 
in  Holland.  Addle  helped  Papa  with  his  luggage, 
like  a  man ;  and  they  drove  away  in  a  cab. 

"  My  boy,  it's  ten  days  since  I  saw  you !  " 

"  What  kept  you  so  long,  Daddy?  " 

"  Everything's  settled  now." 

"  And  are  we  going  to  hunt  for  a  house?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  at  his  child  with  a  laugh  of  delight, 
threw  his  arm  over  Addie's  shoulder,  drew  him  to 
him,  full  of  a  strange,  oppressive  sadness  and  con- 
tent, because  he  was  back,  in  Holland. 

They  pulled  up  at  the  hotel.  Constance  was  wait- 
ing for  them  in  her  room. 

"  How  are  you,  Constance?  " 

"  How  are  you,  Henri?  " 

"  I've  done  everything." 

"  That's  good.     Your  room  is  through  here." 

"  Capital." 

He  rang,  ordered  coffee. 

Her  face  at  once  became  stiff  and  drawn.  Addie 
poured  out  the  coffee: 

86 


SMALL  SOULS  87 

"  Here  you  are,  Dad." 

"  Thank  you,  my  boy.  And  how  do  you  like  your 
Dutch  country,  my  lad?  How  do  you  like  all  the 
little  cousins?  " 

"  Oh,  I  haven't  seen  much  of  them  yet,  but  I'm 
going  to  Uncle  Gerrit  and  Aunt  Adeline's  on  Thurs- 
day." 

"  How  many  children  have  they?  " 

"  Seven." 

"  By  Jove  !     Is  Mamma  well,  Constance?  " 

"  Yes,  very  well." 

"  I've  .  .  .  I've  had  a  letter  from  Papa,"  he 
stammered.  "  They  want  us  to  come  and  see  them 
soon  at  Driebergen.  .  .  ." 

He  was  at  last  bringing  her  the  long-expected  rec- 
onciliation. She  looked  at  him  without  a  word. 

"  Here's  the  letter!  "  he  said,  handing  it  to  her. 

She  read  the  letter.  It  was  couched  in  the  grop- 
ing words  of  an  old  and  old-fashioned  man,  who 
wrote  seldom;  an  attempt  at  forgiving,  at  forgetting, 
at  welcoming :  laboured,  but  not  insincere.  The  let- 
ter ended  by  saying  that  Henri's  parents  hoped  soon 
to  see  him  and  Constance  and  Addle  at  Driebergen. 

Her  heart  beat: 

"  So  they  are  condescending  to  take  me  into  fa- 
vour!" she  thought,  bitterly.  "Why  only  now? 
Why  only  now?  My  boy  is  thirteen;  and  they  have 
never  asked  to  see  their  only  grandson.  They  are 
hard  people!  Why  only  now?  I  don't  like 
them.  .  .  ." 

But  all  she  said  was: 


88  SMALL  SOULS 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  your  parents." 

She  had  learnt  that  in  Rome,  to  say  one  thing  and 
mean  another. 

"  And  when  do  you  want  to  go  to  Driebergen?  " 
she  asked. 

"  To-morrow." 

V  We  were  to  have  gone  to  tea,  after  dinner,  at 
the  Van  Saetzemas' :  Adolphine  and  her  husband." 

"  I  am  longing  to  see  my  father  and  mother." 

"Very  well;  offend  my  family  for  the  sake  of 
yours  and  write  and  refuse  the  Van  Saetzemas." 

"  There  is  no  question  of  offending  anybody.  I 
am  longing  to  see  my  parents;  and  we  must  show 
them  that  we  appreciate  their  letter." 

"Appreciate?"  she  asked,  bitterly.  "What  am 
I  to  appreciate?  That  it  took  them  thirteen  years 
to  say  they  would  like  to  see  their  grandchild?  " 

"  Your  family  weren't  pining  to  see  you  either,  all 
those  years." 

'  That's  not  true.  Mamma  came  to  see  us  at 
Brussels." 

He  laughed,  scornfully: 

"  In  thirteen  years,  twice,  for  two  days  each 
time!" 

She  stamped  her  foot: 

"  Mamma  is  an  old  woman;  she  never  travels." 

"  My  parents  also  are  old ;  and  they  have  had  a 
hard  struggle  with  their  principles  and  convic- 
tions." 

"  So  I  am  to  be  grateful  to  them  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly: 


SMALL  SOULS  89 

"Grateful?"  he  echoed.  "You've  never  been 
that.  Not  to  them  nor  to  me.  .  .  ." 

She  clenched  her  fists: 

"  Again !  "  she  screamed.  "  Always  again  and 
again!  Nothing  but  reproaches  for  ruining  your 
career,  for  .  .  .  for  .  .  ." 

She  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Mamma!  "  said  Addie. 

The  boy  was  between  them.  He  was  everything 
to  both  of  them.  He  never  understood  the  cause  of 
those  quarrels,  the  ground  of  those  reproaches :  and, 
until  now,  he  had  never  reflected  how  strange  it  was 
that  his  father's  relations  and  his  mother's  were  al- 
ways so  far  away,  so  inaccessible.  But  he  did  not 
ask,  even  if  he  did  not  understand;  and  yet,  though 
he  did  not  understand  this  particular  thing,  he  was  no 
longer  a  child.  He  was  a  little  man  by  now;  and  his 
heart  was  all  the  heavier  because  he  did  not  know 
and  did  not  understand.  But  he  shouldered  his  bur- 
den like  a  hero. 

She  kissed  the  boy: 

"  Ah !  "  she  wept.  "  You  like  him  better  than  me, 
Addie:  go  to  him,  go  to  him!  " 

"  Mamma,"  he  said,  "  I  love  you  both  the  same. 
Don't  cry,  Mamma;  don't  be  so  quick,  so  impa- 
tient. .  .  ." 

Van  der  Welcke  drank  his  coffee. 

She  clasped  the  child  to  her,  kissed  him  fiercely : 

"  I'm  going  out,  Addie.  You're  very  good,  but 
I'm  going  out :  I  want  air." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?" 


90  SMALL  SOULS 

"  No,  stay  with  Papa.  .  .  ." 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  them  together  at  this 
first  moment  of  his  return;  after  the  past  ten  days, 
she  must  harden  herself  again  to  seeing  him  caress 
the  child;  and  now,  now  she  was  running  away,  so 
that  she  might  not  see  it.  She  put  on  her  hat; 
kissed  Addie  once  more,  to  show  that  she  was  not 
angry  with  him,  was  never  angry  with  him ;  and  went 
out. 

"  Papa,"  said  Addie. 

Van  der  Welcke  looked  gloomy,  apprehensive. 

"  Why  do  you  say  those  things  to  her,  Papa?  " 

"  My  boy!  "  He  drew  a  deep  breath,  embraced 
his  son.  "  Addie,"  he  said,  "  you've  grown  bigger 
than  ever.  How  broad  you're  getting!  You're 
quite  a  big  chap,  Addie;  almost  too  big  for  your 
father  to  kiss  and  take  on  his  knee." 

"  No,  Daddy;  I'm  your  own  boy." 

He  sat  down  on  Van  der  Welcke's  knees,  flung  his 
arms  about  his  father's  neck,  laid  his  soft,  childish 
face  against  his  father's  close-shaven  cheek. 

"My  little  chap!" 

Van  der  Welcke  pressed  the  boy  to  him,  felt 
calmer  now,  with  that  soft  cheek  against  his. 

"  What  do  you  start  quarrelling  at  once  for?  " 

"  It's  Mamma." 

"  And  you  answer  her.  Mamma's  nerves  are  all 
on  edge.  Then  don't  answer  her." 

"  What  are  Mamma's  people  like?  " 

"  I  think  they're  rather  nice.  Granny  is  very 
kind;  and  so  are  Aunt  Bertha  and  Uncle  Gerrit  and 


SMALL  SOULS  91 

Aunt  Adeline.  Mamma  is  very  glad  to  see  them  all 
again.  Are  you  glad  to  be  in  Holland  and  to  be 
seeing  Grandpapa  and  Grandmamma  soon?" 

"  Yes,  my  boy." 

"  Then  let  us  arrange  when  we  shall  go  to  Drie- 
bergen.  Not  to-morrow,  for  then  you  and  Mamma 
are  going  to  Uncle  and  Aunt  van  Saetzema's. 
Thursday,  I  promised  to  go  to  Uncle  Gerrit's;  but 
I  can  see  the  children  any  day.  So  let  us  go  down 
on  Thursday.  And  then  to-morrow  you  can  begin 
to  look  for  a  house." 

"  Very  well,  my  boy,  that  will  do." 

"  Shall  I  tell  Mamma  it's  settled?  " 

"  Yes."  He  clasped  the  child  to  him.  "  My  Ad- 
die,  my  boy,  my  darling,  my  darling!  " 

"Silly  old  Father!" 

He  remained  on  Van  der  Welcke's  knee,  cheek  to 
cheek.  Outside,  in  the  Voorhout,  the  rain  pelted 
on  the  bare  March  trees;  and  grey  mists  loomed  out 
of  the  distance,  pale  and  shapeless,  while  the  damp 
evening  fell.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IX 

THAT  evening,  after  dinner,  Van  der  Welcke,  Con- 
stance and  Addie  went  to  Mrs.  van  Lowe's,  where 
they  found  Dorine,  who  wanted  to  meet  her  brother- 
in-law. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you  to-day,"  she  said.  "  I 
had  a  lot  of  errands  to  do,  for  Bertha;  and  so,  as  I 
was  going  through  the  town,  I  thought  to  myself, 
'  I'll  go  on  to  Duinoord  and  see  if  there  are  many 
houses  to  let.'  I'm  simply  worn  out!  " 

"  But  Dorine,  how  sweet  of  you  1  "  said  Constance. 

Van  der  Welcke  too  was  surprised : 

'  That's  really  extremely  kind  of  you,  my  new 
sister !  " 

"  Here  is  a  list  I  made,  with  the  rent,  in  most 
cases." 

"  Only,  Dorine,  Duinoord  is  so  far  from  Mam- 
ma." 

"  Yes;  but,  Connie,"  said  Mamma,  "  you  can't  get 
anything  in  this  neighbourhood  for  eight  hundred 
guilders." 

"  What's  the  use  of  living  at  the  Hague,"  said 
Constance,  impatiently,  "  and  being  an  hour  away 
from  you?  I  want  to  live  near  you." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  Van  der  Welcke  ventured 
to  put  in. 

"See,  see,  see!"  said  Constance,  angrily.  "I 

93 


SMALL  SOULS  93 

want  to  have  my  own  house  quickly.  The  hotel  is 
expensive;  and  I  dislike  it.  By  the  time  the  furni- 
ture has  come  from  Brussels,  by  the  time  we  are  set- 
tled. .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  well,  Mummy,"  said  Addle,  decisively, 
"  Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day,  you  know." 

She  smiled  at  once.  Every  word  spoken  by  her 
child  was  a  balm,  an  anodyne.  The  old  grand- 
mother smiled.  Dorine  smiled. 

"  Addie,"  said  Mamma  van  Lowe,  "  you  must  do 
your  best  to  help  Papa  and  Mamma  with  the  house." 

"  Yes,  Granny.     It  won't  be  plain  sailing.  .  .  ." 

The  child  was  more  at  his  ease  than  on  the  Sun- 
day evening.  Granny  was  very  kind;  so  was  Aunt 
Dorine,  to  trot  about  like  that,  after  those  houses. 

"  Aunt  Dorine,  do  you  always  run  errands?  " 

Everybody  laughed:  it  was  a  mania  of  Dorine's 
to  traverse  the  Hague  daily  from  end  to  end;  she  was 
a  very  willing  creature  and  she  was  particularly  busy 
just  now  for  Bertha  and  Adolphine,  because  of  the 
two  weddings. 

Ernst  and  Paul  entered. 

"  We  heard  that  Van  der  Welcke  was  at 
Mamma's,"  said  Paul,  "  and  we've  come  to  be  intro- 
duced." 

'  These  at  least  are  not  visits  in  optima  forma," 
thought  Constance  to  herself. 

Ernst  resembled  Bertha  and  blinked  his  eyes;  but, 
in  addition,  he  was  odd,  shy,  always  timid,  even  in 
the  family-circle.  There  was  something  bashful 


94  SMALL  SOULS 

about  him,  as  though  he  wanted  to  run  away  as  soon 
as  he  could.  But  he  made  an  effort  and  suddenly 
asked  Constance : 

"  Are  you  fond  of  china?  " 

"  Delft,  do  you  mean?  " 

'Yes.  Are  you  fond  of  vases?  I  love  vases. 
I  have  all  sorts  of  vases.  Have  you  ever  thought 
of  a  vase :  the  shape,  the  symbol  of  a  vase  ?  No,  you 
don't  know  what  I  mean.  Will  you  come  and  see 
me  one  day,  in  my  rooms?  Will  you  come  and 
lunch:  you  and  your  husband?  Then  I'll  show  you 
my  vases." 

Constance  smiled: 

"  I  should  love  to,  Ernst.  Have  you  so  many  rare 
vases?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  in  a  proud  whisper.  "  I  have 
some  very  rare  ones.  I  am  always  afraid  they  will 
be  stolen.  They  are  my  children." 

And  he  laughed;  and  she  laughed  too,  while 
shrinking  a  little  from  him  and  from  coming  to  those 
rooms  filled  with  vases  that  were  children.  She  did 
not  know  what  more  to  say  to  Ernst;  and  she  now 
told  Mamma,  softly,  that  old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  van  der 
Welcke,  her  father-  and  mother-in-law,  had  asked 
them  to  Driebergen. 

Mrs.  van  Lowe  beamed  and  whispered : 

"  Child,  I  am  so  glad!  I  am  so  glad  they  have 
done  that.  It's  been  running  in  my  head  all  this 
time,  what  attitude  they  would  take  up  to  you.  After 
all,  Adriaan  is  their  grandson  as  well  as  mine." 


SMALL  SOULS  95 

"  For  thirteen  years  .  .  ."  Constance  began,  bit- 
terly. 

"  Child,  child,  don't  bear  malice,  don't  bear  mal- 
ice. Make  no  more  reproaches.  All  will  come 
right,  my  child.  I  am  so  glad.  They  are  different 
from  us,  dear,  not  so  broad-minded,  very  orthodox 
and  strict  in  their  principles.  And,  when,  at  the 
time,  they  insisted  that  Van  der  Welcke  should  marry 
you,  that  was  a  great  sacrifice  on  their  part,  child: 
it  shattered  their  son's  career." 

"Why?"  exclaimed  Constance,  in  a  whisper,  but 
vehemently.  "  It  shattered  his  career?  Why? 
Why  need  he  have  left  the  service?  " 

"  Dear,  it  was  so  difficult  for  him  to  remain,  after 
the  scandal." 

Constance  gave  a  scornful  laugh : 

"  In  that  circle,  where  there  is  nothing  but  scandal 
which  they  hush  up !  " 

"  Hush,  child:  don't  be  so  violent,  don't  be  so  ir- 
ritable. I  am  so  glad,  Connie!  I  could  kiss  those 
old  people.  I  will  call  on  them  too,  when  you  have 
been  ...  to  embrace  them.  .  .  ." 

Mamma  was  in  tears.  Constance  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  breast:  she  was  suffocating. 

'  Very  well,  Mamma,"  she  said,  softly  and  calmly. 
"  I  will  be  grateful,  all  my  life  long,  to  Papa  and 
Mamma  van  der  Welcke,  to  Henri,  to  you,  to  all  of 
you!  .  .  ." 

"  Child,  don't  be  bitter.  Try  to  be  a  little  happy 
now,  among  us  all.  We  will  all  try  to  be  nice  to  you 
and  to  make  you  forget  the  past.  .  .  ." 


96  SMALL  SOULS 

"Mamma!  .  .  ." 
She  embraced  the  old  woman: 
"  Mamma,  don't  cry !     I  am  happy,  I  really  am, 
to  be  back,  back  among  all  of  you  1  " 


CHAPTER  X 

Two  days  later,  Van  der  Welcke,  Constance  and 
Addle  were  in  the  train  on  their  way  to  Driebergen. 
The  boy,  to  whom  Holland  was  a  new  country,  was 
interested  in  the  vague,  dim,  low-lying  expanses 
bounded,  on  the  mist-blurred  horizons,  by  straggling 
rows  of  trees,  with  here  and  there  a  village-steeple; 
the  wind-mills  flung  out  their  sails  like  despairing 
arms  to  the  great  jaundiced  clouds,  whose  gloomy 
masses,  driven  by  a  rainy  wind,  scurried  across  the 
lowering  skies.  The  boy  asked  question  after  ques- 
tion, sitting  with  his  hand  in  his  father's;  and,  to 
avoid  the  sight  of  that  caress,  Constance  gazed  out 
of  the  opposite  window,  in  silence. 

They  had  been  to  the  Van  Saetzemas  the  evening 
before;  and,  though  Constance  felt  irritated  at  first, 
she  ended  with  a  passion  of  pity.  Good  heavens, 
how  was  it  possible  that  Adolphine  had  become  so 
common!  Whom  on  earth  did  she  get  it  from! 
Mamma,  so  refined  and  distinguished!  Papa,  her 
poor  father,  such  an  aristocrat,  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school !  .  .  .  And  yet,  perhaps,  from  the  Ruy- 
venaers.  You  would  never  have  taken  Uncle  for  a 
brother  of  Mamma's.  Was  it  from  the  Ruyvenaers, 
perhaps?  Great  heavens,  how  common  Adolphine 
was !  .  .  .  Her  husband  was  a  boor ;  her  house  pre- 
tentious and  slovenly;  her  girls,  the  two  elder,  pre- 
tentious, priggish,  envious;  Marie,  the  youngest  girl, 

97 


98  SMALL  SOULS 

a  sort  of  Cinderella,  but  a  sweet,  shy,  down-trodden, 
quiet  child.  .  .  .  But  then  there  were  the  three 
boys,  so  repulsive,  so  slovenly,  so  rude.  .  .  .  What 
a  crew,  what  a  crew !  .  .  .  They  had  gone  to  take 
tea  there  quietly;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  a  sort  of 
little  evening-party:  a  regular  rabble,  as  Van  der 
Welcke,  who  was  furious,  had  said.  Two  men  in 
dress-coats  and  white  ties;  the  others  running  through 
the  entire  scale  of  masculine  attire:  frock-coats,  din- 
ner-jackets, tweeds.  Adolphine  seemed  always  to 
send  out  ambiguous  invitations;  and  people  never 
knew  what  they  should  wear  nor  whom  they  would 
meet.  .  .  .  Floortje  in  a  dirty,  white,  low-necked 
dress,  if  you  please;  Caroline  and  Marietje  in  walk- 
ing-dress; Van  Saetzema  himself  looking  like  a  fat 
farmer,  carrying  on  in  his  noisy  way  with  Uncle 
Ruyvenaer:  it  was  all  so  vulgar!  .  .  .  Aunt  Ruy- 
venaer  was  always  good-natured;  and  the  girls, 
though  very  Indian-looking,  were  pleasant  and  nat- 
ural and  simple;  but,  for  the  rest,  the  evening,  with 
all  sorts  of  strangers,  was  a  snare,  especially  for  Van 
der  Welcke,  whom,  as  a  brother-in-law,  they  might 
surely  have  welcomed  in  a  more  intimate  and  heartier 
fashion  the  first  time  they  saw  him,  after  refusing, 
for  years,  to  recognize  him  as  a  member  of  the  fam- 
ily 1  And,  once  back  in  the  hotel,  she  had  had  a  vio- 
lent scene  with  her  husband :  he  abusing  that  rabble  of 
a  family  of  hers,  she,  defending  her  family,  against 
her  own  conviction,  until  Addle  woke,  got  out  of 
bed  and  begged  them  to  be  quiet,  or  he  wouldn't 
be  able  to  sleep.  .  .  .  The  darling,  how  prettily 


SMALL  SOULS  99 

he  had  said  it,  in  that  dear  little  decided  way  of  his, 
like  a  regular  little  man:  oh,  where  would  they  be 
without  him !  She  sometimes  thought,  if  he  died, 
if  they  ever  had  to  lose  him,  she  would  do  away 
with  herself!  He  was  not  their  child:  he  was  their 
treasure,  their  life.  And  she  gave  a  glance  at  him; 
but,  when  she  saw  him  sitting  hand  in  hand  with  his 
father,  while  Van  der  Welcke  tried  to  make  out  the 
distant  village-steeples  after  all  those  years,  she 
turned  round  again,  quickly,  with  a  jealous  pang  at 
her  heart.  .  .  .  Oh,  she  felt  sorry  for  Adolphine ! 
She  saw  in  Adolphine  a  struggle  to  be  "  in  the  swim," 
a  desperate  struggle,  because  Van  Saetzema  had 
nothing  but  a  fine-sounding  name :  in  everything  else, 
he  was  an  insignificant  person,  who  had  great  diffi- 
culty in  obtaining  his  promotion,  after  long  years 
of  waiting;  married  to  Adolphine,  no  one  knowing 
why  she  had  taken  him  or  he  her;  first  trying  to  set 
up  as  an  advocate  and  attorney  at  the  Hague;  later, 
receiving  a  billet  in  the  Ministry  of  Justice,  but  never 
liked  by  Papa  and  never  helped  on  by  him,  as  Van 
Naghel  had  been;  never  thought  much  of  by  his 
superiors;  now  pushed  into  all  sorts  of  little  jobs 
and  committees  by  Adolphine;  trying  to  botch  up 
some  kind  of  political  creed,  in  order  to  stand  as  a 
candidate  for  the  Municipal  Council,  because 
Adolphine,  always  jealous  and  envious  of  Bertha's 
importance,  wanted  to  see  her  own  husband  coming 
more  and  more  to  the  front  and  had  so  little  chance 
of  realizing  that  ideal.  .  .  .  Yes,  Adolphine  must 
be  inwardly  furious  when  she  thought  of  Bertha's 


ioo  SMALL  SOULS 

household:  her  husband  colonial  secretary,  after 
making  money  at  the  bar  at  Semarang;  their  house 
a  replica  of  the  dignified,  stately  paternal  home  of 
the  old  days:  the  same  big  dinners,  the  same  good 
society,  just  verging  on  the  diplomatic  set.  And 
so  Adolphine  gave  those  impossible  "  little  even- 
ings:" all  sorts  of  persons  dragged  in  anyhow; 
diversified  elements  that  knew  nothing  of  one  an- 
other, never  saw  one  another,  were  astonished  to 
meet  one  another  in  those  cramped  drawing-rooms, 
full  of  faded  specimens  of  amateur  needle-work  and 
dusty  Makart  bouquets;  a  rubber,  a  jingling  duet  by 
the  girls,  next  the  tables  pushed  aside  and  suddenly, 
by  way  of  a  dance,  a  mad  romp,  which  sent  a  cloud 
of  dust  flying  from  the  carpet:  everything,  every- 
thing in  the  same  execrable  taste,  uninviting  and, 
especially,  common,  with  the  thick  sandwiches  and 
the  sluttish  maid-servant,  who  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders impertinently  if  the  girls  asked  her  to  do  a 
thing!  Oh,  Constance  felt  sorry  for  Adolphine, 
who  was,  after  all,  her  sister;  and  she  became  aware, 
after  years,  as  though  it  had  been  slumbering,  of  a 
warm  family-affection  for  all  her  brothers  and  sis- 
ters and  their  children.  Did  she  inherit  it  from  her 
mother?  A  warm  family-affection.  She  would 
have  loved  to  have  a  friendly  talk  with  Adolphine, 
to  advise  her  to  separate  the  different  elements  a 
little  at  those  evenings  of  hers,  to  make  her  invita- 
tions less  heterogeneous  and  to  tell  Floortje  not  to 
wear  a  soiled  ball-dress  on  an  occasion  like  that! 
And  then  those  three  boys,  with  their  dirty  hands, 


SMALL  SOULS  101 

rushing  about  the  crammed  drawing-rooms  without 
any  idea  of  manners,  so  badly  brought  up  compared 
with  her  Addie,  who  perhaps  had  not  been  brought 
up  at  all,  but  who  was  such  a  nice  little  fellow  of 
himself,  so  polite,  stiff  though  he  might  be,  and  who 
talked  properly  and  not  with  a  splutter  of  low  Hague 
slang!  Oh,  it  was  dreadful!  And  she  was  so 
afraid  that  Addie  might  catch  some  of  it.  ... 
Poor  Adolphine,  what  a  struggle,  especially  with  all 
Bertha's  unattainable  perfection  before  her  eyes! 
For  they  all  suffered  from  jealousy  in  their  family  :\/ 
she  had  it  herself;  and  Adolphine  had  always  had 
it  very  strongly-developed  from  a  child:  jealous  of 
her  elder  sisters  and  brothers.  .  .  .  Would  she 
ever  be  able  to  give  Adolphine  a  word  of  advice? 
Now  that  Floortje's  wedding  was  near  at  hand, 
couldn't  she  be  of  use  to  Adolphine?  She  thought 
it  such  a  pity  that  her  sister — a  Van  Lowe,  after  all 
— was  becoming  so  common;  and,  after  last  night, 
she  was  so  afraid  of  that  wedding;  and  it  would  be 
all  the  worse  because  Bertha's  Emilie  was  to  be  mar- 
ried about  the  same  time,  in  May,  a  couple  of  months 
hence.  In  any  case,  she  would  talk  to  Mamma 
about  it,  not  for  the  sake  of  interfering,  but  because 
Adolphine  was  her  sister,  because  she  cared  for  her 
as  a  sister  and  because  she  had  a  feeling  of  pity  for 
her,  genuine,  heart-rending  pity.  .  .  . 
"  Mamma,  what  are  you  looking  at?  " 
It  was  Addie's  voice;  and  she  saw  that  the  boy 
had  come  to  sit  by  her,  because  it  was  her  turn  now. 
He  always  divided  his  favours  like  that  between  his 


IP2  SMALL  SOULS 

father  and  mother.  For  Van  der  Welcke  at  once 
took  up  the  Nieuwe  Rotter dammer  and  buried  him- 
self in  its  wide  pages,  in  his  corner. 

"  Oh,  so  you've  come  to  sit  by  me  at  last!  v  she 
whispered. 

"  Mummy,  don't  be  so  jealous:  do  you  want  me 
to  chop  myself  in  two?  " 

He  talked  to  her,  amused  her.  She  always  ad- 
mired the  way  in  which  he  talked,  prettily,  sensibly 
and  divertingly,  with  a  sort  of  talent  for  small-talk. 
Very  likely  he  had  acquired  it  because,  without  him, 
his  father  and  mother  would  have  been  silent,  when 
they  were  jiot  quarrelling.  He  talked  of  a  couple 
of  houses  which  they  had  seen  yesterday;  he  talked 
of  the  landscape,  said  it  made  him  feel  a  Dutch  boy 
at  once — wasn't  it  funny? — and  kept  his  mother 
amused  like  a  gallant  little  cavalier.  And  yet  he 
had  nothing  of  a  dandy  about  him:  a  broad,  short, 
firmly-built  little  man,  in  a  coloured  shirt,  a  blue 
great-coat  and  knickerbockers.  He  wore  a  soft  felt 
hat,  shaped  like  a  Boer  hat.  She  didn't  like  that 
hat,  but  he  insisted  on  having  one.  But,  even  with 
that  hat,  how  handsome  he  was!  Oh,  what  a  good- 
looking  boy  he  was!  His  frank,  blue  eyes,  a  little 
hard  and  grave;  his  fresh-coloured,  firm  cheeks,  with 
those  refined,  clear-cut  features,  Henri's  features; 
his  small  mouth,  which  she  loved;  his  square  shoul- 
ders; his  pretty,  knickerbockered  legs,  with  the 
square  knees  and  the  slender,  rounded  calves.  Her 
child,  her  child :  he  was  her  all  in  all !  He  was  the 


SMALL   SOULS  103 

happiness,  the  grace  of  her  life;  because  of  him  her 
life  was  worth  the  living! 

He  talked,  but  she  saw  a  grave  look  in  his  eyes, 
a  look  graver  than  usual.  Yes,  she  felt  it:  it  was 
because  of  what  was  awaiting  them,  in  an  hour's 
time ;  the  reception  by  the  grandparents  down  there, 
at  Driebergen.  .  .  .  Van  der  Welcke  also  was 
nervous,  did  not  speak  a  word,  folded  his  newspaper, 
this  side  and  that.  .  .  .  Constance'  heart  beat  in 
her  throat,  which  was  dry  and  parched  with  nervous- 
ness. And  Addie's  look  became  more  fixed,  more 
serious  than  ever.  Yes,  she  felt  it.  There  was  a 
tenderness  in  the  child's  voice,  as  though  he  wanted 
to  say: 

"  Mind  you  bear  up,  Mummy,  presently.  .  .  ." 
And,  the  nearer  they  approached,  the  quieter  they 
became:  Henri  in  his  newspaper;  she  staring  through 
the  window;  while  Addie  himself  found  nothing 
more  to  say  and  sat  quite  still,  with  his  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  his  little  great-coat.  No,  she  could  never 
forget  that  those  two  old  people  had  taken  thirteen 
years,  not  to  accept  her  as  their  daughter,  but  to 
look  upon  her  child  as  their  grandchild.  During 
all  that  time,  not  a  letter,  not  an  attempt  at  recon- 
ciliation: a  complete  silence,  an  absolute  death 
towards  their  only  son,  towards  their  only  grand- 
son. She  was  not  thinking  of  herself;  she  asked 
for  no  affection  from  them,  only  for  cold  civility. 
She  felt  so  much  resentment,  so  much  resentment 
that,  when  she  thought  of  it,  she  almost  choked. 


io4  SMALL  SOULS 

And,  over  and  above,  came  the  crushing  conscious- 
ness that  she  had  to  be  grateful  because  those  parents 
had  sacrificed  their  son  to  her,  as  they  had  once 
said;  because  they  had  insisted  that  Henri  should 
marry  her,  even  though  it  shattered  his  career. 
And  that,  that  was  what  she  could  never  forgive, 
because  it  had  always  wounded,  because  it  still 
wounded  her  vanity. 

She  would  have  been  grateful,  for  her  son's  sake, 
if  they  had  de.cided  that  Henri,  after  a  retirement 
of  some  years,  relying  on  his  influential  connections, 
should  resume  his  career,  with  her  by  his  side.  De 
Staffelaer  had  left  the  diplomatic  service,  was  living 
at  his  country-place  near  Haarlem;  and  they  could 
never  have  met  him  abroad  except  by  some  extraor- 
dinary coincidence.  .  .  .  No,  that  she  never  would 
and  never  could  forgive  them,  because  of  her 
wounded  vanity;  it  was  that  which  caused  the  bitter- 
ness that  almost  choked  her:  the  "  sacrifice,"  Henri's 
career  shattered  through  her.  Had  she  not  for  five 
years  been  the  wife  of  the  Netherlands  minister  at 
Rome?  Had  she  not  filled  her  position  with  tact, 
with  grace,  even  with  consummate  knowledge  of  the 
world,  until  the  Dutch  colony  praised  her  salons 
above  those  of  the  other  Netherlands  legations 
abroad?  Had  she  not  taken  pride  in  that  reputa- 
tion, taken  pleasure  in  the  fact  that  the  Dutch  col- 
ony and  Dutch  travellers  found  something  in  her 
dinners  and  receptions  that  reminded  them  of  Hol- 
land and  home?  How  often  had  she  not  been  told, 
"  Mevrouw,  with  you,  in  Rome,  everything  is  most 


SMALL  SOULS  105 

charming,  especially  when  compared  with  this  place 
and  that;  "  her  countrymen  used  often  to  complain 
to  her  of  the  dulness  and  stiffness  and  exclusiveness 
of  so  many  of  their  legations.  Would  she  not  have 
been  in  her  right  place  by  Van  der  Welcke's  side, 
even  though  people  might  talk  and  cavil  at  first,  be- 
cause, she,  the  divorced  wife  of  a  minister  plenipo- 
tentiary, had  afterwards  married  the  youngest  secre- 
tary in  the  service !  But  she  would  have  shown  tact, 
it  would  have  been  forgotten,  it  would  have  subsided 
into  the  past.  She  refused  to  believe  but  that  all 
this  would  have  been  possible,  not  for  any  one  else, 
perhaps,  but  certainly  for  her.  And  this  was  her 
grievance,  that  those  two  old  people — and  Henri 
with  them — had  never  been  able  to  see  this  as  she 
did;  that  they  had  given  her  their  son,  with  an  al- 
lowance that  meant  poverty — two  alms  for  which 
she  was  expected  to  be  grateful ! — but  had  left  her 
and  him  and  their  child  in  Brussels,  in  a  corner,  like 
some  unnamable  disgrace !  No,  that  was  a  thing 
which  she  could  never  forgive,  never,  never,  never! 

She  was  so  deep  in  her  thoughts  that  she  did  not 
notice  that  the  train  had  stopped  and  that  they  had 
arrived  at  Zeist-Driebergen. 

"  Mamma !  "  said  Addie,  softly. 

She  started,  turned  pale.  But  she  was  resolved 
to  control  herself,  to  be  dignified,  to  show  those  old 
people  that  she  was  not  a  worthless  woman,  even 
though  she  had  committed  a  mistake,  a  false  step  in 
her  life:  very  well,  a  sin,  if  they  pleased,  because 
she  had  loved.  Addie  helped  her  to  alight;  and  her 


io6  SMALL  SOULS 

gloved  fingers  trembled  in  his  firm  little  hand.  But 
she  was  resolved  not  to  give  way:  she  must  keep 
quite  calm;  yes,  she  would  be  calm  and  dignified 
above  all.  .  .  . 

"  There's  the  carriage,"  said  Henri,  in  a  stifled 
voice. 

He  recognized  the  very  old  carriage  of  years  ago. 
He  even  recognized  the  old  coachman,  who  looked 
at  him  and  touched  his  hat.  The  footman  who 
opened  the  carriage-door  was  a  youth,  whom  he  did 
not  know.  And  the  coachman,  as  an  old  servant, 
bent  over  to  him  and,  in  a  quavering  voice,  using  the 
old  title,  said: 

"  Morning,  jonker.     Good-morning,  mevrouw." 

"How  are  you,  Dirk?"  said  Henri,  in  a  dull 
voice. 

They  settled  themselves  in  the  carriage.  And 
Constance  saw  that  Henri  was  setting  his  lips,  grit- 
ting his  teeth  and  clenching  his  jaws,  as  though  with 
a  violent  effort  to  stop  himself  from  crying  like  a 
child.  Now  and  then  he  shivered,  nervously,  and 
stared  out  of  the  window.  He  recognized  the  villas 
on  either  side  of  the  road,  looking  so  melancholy  in 
the  middle  of  the  bleak  March  gardens  that  stretched 
hazily  in  the  damp  mist;  he  noticed  how  much  had 
been  pulled  down  to  make  way  for  new  houses. 
How  changed  it  was!  What  a  lot  had  been  built 
lately!  But  yet  there  was  something  under  those 
great  cloudy  skies,  heavy  with  eternal  rain,  in  that 
road,  in  the  gardens  of  those  villas:  something  of 
the  old  days,  something  of  his  childhood,  something 


SMALL  SOULS  107 

of  the  time  when  he  was  young.  He  felt  like  an 
old  man  coming  home  again:  he,  scarcely  eight-and- 
thirty !  It  was  as  though  he  were  ashamed  in  the 
presence  of  the  familiar!  And,  very  secretly,  too 
weak  to  accuse  himself,  he  accused  her,  the  woman 
sitting  beside  him,  the  woman  four  years  older  than 
himself.  He  too  was  thinking  of  Rome  now,  of  the 
rooms  of  the  Netherlands  Legation,  of  her,  then 
Mrs.  de  Staffelaer,  the  wife  of  his  chief,  of  their 
Iqve-affair,  first  in  jest,  then  in  earnest,  until  that 
terrible  moment  in  the  room  where  they  used  to 
meet;  De  Staffelaer  in  the  doorway;  Constance  flee- 
ing through  another  door;  and  his  interview  with  the 
injured  old  man,  who  had  been  good  to  him,  in  a 
fatherly  fashion!  And  he  blamed  her  for  it:  it  was 
her  fault !  He  was  a  young  man  then,  with  hardly 
any  knowledge  of  the  world ;  she,  a  woman  of  twenty- 
eight,  married  for  over  five  years,  had  enticed  him, 
had  been  the  temptress!  It  was  she,  it  was  she: 
he  blamed  her  for  it !  He  had  not  loved  her  at  first, 
during  the  first  stages  of  the  flirtation.  There  had 
been  a  chat,  a  waltz,  a  jest.  Yes,  then  it  had  turned 
to  passion;  but  what  was  passion?  The  flame  of  a 
moment,  flaring  up  and  then  extinguished.  And 
he  knew  it:  from  that  day,  when  he  stood  as  a  cul- 
prit in  the  presence  of  that  dignified  old  man,  from 
that  day  the  flame  was  extinguished.  And  from  that 
day  he  began  to  see  the  life  that  lay  before  him: 
the  scandal,  which  filled  all  Rome;  the  despair  of  his 
pious  parents,  far  away  at  home,  in  Holland;  Con- 
stance in  Florence:  their  first  interview  there,  him- 


io8  SMALL  SOULS 

self  yielding  to  his  parents'  wishes  and  asking  her 
to  be  his  wife,  to  marry  him  in  England  as  soon  as 
the  divorce  was  granted.  Since  then,  he  had  always 
seen  his  fate  hanging  before  him;  and  it  had  crushed 
him,  so  weak,  so  small.  .  .  .  Amid  the  wretched- 
ness, amid  the  ruin  of  his  young  life,  beside  that 
woman  in  whom  he,  who  did  not  take  blame  to,  him- 
self, never  lost  sight  of  the  worldly-wise  temptress 
four  years  older  than  he,  beside  that  woman,  the 
eternal  obstacle,  and  amid  that  wretchedness,  the 
only  grace  had  been  the  child.  That  which  might 
have  increased  the  misery  had  been  the  mercy,  from 
the  first  moment  that  he  set  eyes  on  it,  little,  red 
morsel  that  it  was:  the  darling  child;  the  child  that 
was  his,  though  the  fruit  of  their  misery;  the  child 
that,  as  it  grew  older,  became  his  comfort;  the  child 
that  felt  with  its  little  hands  over  his  face  and  in  his 
Jiair;  the  child  that  said  "Daddy;"  the  child  that 
he  smothered  in  his  arms !  The  child,  her  child,  it 
was  true,  but  his  child  also :  his  child,  his  son,  grow- 
ing up  and  soon  becoming  the  little  moderator  be- 
tween them  and  the  reason,  also,  why  they  remained 
together;  the  child,  growing  up  to  boyhood  and,  with- 
out understanding  or  knowing,  still  feeling  the  eter- 
nal struggle,  the  eternal  misery,  until  its  eyes  became 
more  grave  and  it  felt  that  it  was  the  moderator  and 
the  comforter.  The  child,  there  it  sat,  opposite  him : 
his  handsome,  sturdy  boy,  who  looked  like  him,  with 
the  fixed,  earnest,  gentle  eyes;  and  he  was  now  going 
to  show  him  to  his  parents:  her  child,  it  was  true, 


SMALL  SOULS  109 

the  fruit  of  their  misery,  but  his  child  and  their 
grandson. 

The  boy  glanced  from  his  father  to  his  mother. 
They  both  sat  opposite  him  and  both  silently  looked 
out  of  the  window,  half-turning  their  backs  upon  each 
other.  The  boy  would  so  gladly  have  taken  their 
hands,  the  hands  of  both  of  them,  and  said  some- 
thing: a  word  to  unite  them  at  this  moment,  which 
he  felt  to  be  very  serious;  but  he  did  not  know  the 
word,  cleverly  though  he  knew  how  to  talk  as  a 
rule.  He  glanced  from  his  father  to  his  mother, 
from  his  mother  to  his  father;  and  they,  they  did 
not  look,  dared  not  look  at  him,  feeling  his  glance 
and  filled  to  overflowing  with  their  own  thoughts. 
Then  the  boy  felt  life  sinking  very  heavily,  like  a 
weight,  upon  his  small  breast.  He  drew  a  very  deep 
breath,  under  the  heavy  weight,  and  his  breath  was 
a  deep  sigh. 

They  both  now  looked  up,  looked  at  their  child. 
Henri  would  have  liked  to  throw  out  his  arms,  to  feel 
his  child  at  his  heart;  but  the  carriage  now  turned 
through  a  gate  and  drove  along  a  front  garden  of 
rounded  lawns,  in  which  the  rose-bushes,  swathed  in 
straw,  stood  waiting  for  the  spring. 


CHAPTER  XI 

\  ^f 

THEY  stepped  from  the  carriage;  the  hall-door 
opened.  The  curtains  of  the  front  room  shook 
slightly,  as  though  with  the  trembling  touch  of  an 
old  hand;  but  there  was  no  one  in  the  hall  to  receive 
them  except  the  butler  who  had  opened  the  door. 

Then  Constance  said: 

44  Henri,  you  go  in  first.  I'll  come  presently,  with 
Addle,  when  you  call  me.  .  .  ^ 

He  looked  at  her,  hesitating  to  say  that  he  him- 
self wished  to  go  in  with  Addie.  But  she  had  laid 
her  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  looked  at  Van 
der  Welcke  so  steadily  that  he  understood  that  she 
would  not  consent.  And  he  went  in,  staggering  like 
a  drunken  man,  went  into  the  room  where  the  win- 
dow-curtains had  trembled. 

The  butler  retired,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  And 
Constance  sat  down  on  the  oak  settle  and  drew  Addie 
beside  her.  So  she  was  meekly  waiting  in  the  hall, 
waiting  the  pleasure  of  her  father-  and  mother-in- 
law;  but  it  was  of  her  own  will  that  she  waited  now, 
after  waiting  nearly  fourteen  years  for  a  word  that 
would  have  called  her  to  them.  With  a  woman's 
delicacy,  she  had  let  Henri  go  in  first  to  his  parents ; 
but  she  had  set  her  mind  upon  taking  her  boy  to 
his  grand-parents  herself.  It  was  for  her  to  do 
that;  she  insisted  on  her  privilege,  her  right.  .  .  . 
Henri's  hesitation  had  not  escaped  her;  but  she  had 

no 


SMALL  SOULS  in 

laid  her  hand  upon  her  son's  shoulder,  as  though 
taking  possession  of  him. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  waited,  but  it 
seemed  very  long;  and  she  had  time  to  see  every 
detail  of  the  hall:  the  oak  wainscoting;  the  three  or 
four  family-portraits;  a  couple  of  old  engravings  of 
city-views;  the  Delft  jugs  on  an  antique  cabinet;  the 
staircase  leading  to  the  floor  above;  the  oak  doors 
of  the  rooms,  which  remained  silent  and  closed.  She 
saw  the  pattern  of  the  tiles  in  the  passage  and  the 
colours  of  the  wide  strip  of  Deventer  carpet.  .  .  . 
Then,  at  last,  the  door  of  the  front  room  opened 
and  an  old  man  appeared.  Constance  rose.  The 
old  man  had  Henri's  features,  but  more  deeply  fur- 
rowed, and  his  clean-shaven  upper  lip  fell  in;  his 
straight  nose  was  more  prominent  and  his  ivory  fore- 
head arched  high  above  a  scanty  fringe  of  iron-grey 
hair.  His  eyes  looked  out  blue  and  hard,  as  Henri's 
eyes  looked  out.  He  was  tall,  Henri  was  short; 
his  shoulders  were  broad  and  bent  in  the  long,  dark 
coat,  Henri  was  square  and  straight.  His  hands 
were  long,  wrinkled  and  bony  and  they  trembled; 
and  Henri's  "hands  were  short  and  broad.  .  .  .  She 
made  her  comparison  in  two  or  three  seconds,  stand- 
ing with  her  hand  on  her  son's  shoulder.  Then  the 
old  man  said: 

"  Come  in,  Constance.  .  .  ." 

She  went,  gently  pushing  Addie  before  her,  and 
they  entered  the  room.  She  saw  an  old  woman,  with 
a  large  face  that  in  no  way  reminded  her  of  Henri. 
The  grey  hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  was  set  severely 


ii2  SMALL  SOULS 

in  a  silver^stiff  frame;  her  complexion  was  yellow  and 
waxen;  her  dark-grey  eyes  were  full  of  tears  and 
peered  painfully  through  that  misty  haze.  Her  fig- 
ure was  bent  in  the  dark  stuff  dress;  her  legs  seemed 
to  move  with  difficulty;  and  her  stooping  body 
was  almost  deformed.  She  was  holding  Henri's 
hand.  .  .  . 

"  Constance,"  the  old  woman  began;  and  her  trem- 
bling hands  were  raised  as  though  for  an  embrace. 

"  Here  is  your  grandson,"  said  Constance,  stiffly. 

She  pushed  Addie  a  little  nearer.  The  boy  looked 
out  of  his  steady  eyes,  which  were  the  eyes  of  Henri 
and  of  the  old  man,  and  said: 

"  How  do  you  do,  Grandpapa  and  Grand- 
mamma? " 

In  the  large,  sombre  room,  his  voice  sounded  dull 
and  yet  firm.  The  old  woman  and  the  old  man 
looked  at  the  boy;  and  there  was  an  oppressive  si- 
lence. They  looked  at  the  boy,  and  they  were  so 
struck  with  amazement  that  they  could  not  find  a 
word  to  say.  The  old  woman  had  taken  Henri's 
hand  again;  and  the  tears  flowed  from  her  eyes. 
Henri's  jaws  grated  and  he  shuddered,  nervously: 

"  That's  my  boy,"  he  said. 

"  So  that  is  Adriaan,"  said  the  old  woman,  trem- 
bling, and  her  embrace,  which  had  not  reached  Con- 
stance, now  closed  upon  the  child.  He  kissed  her 
in  his  turn ;  and  then  the  old  man  also  embraced  him 
and  the  child  kissed  him  back. 

"  Hendrik,"    said  the   old   woman.     "  Hendrik, 


SMALL  SOULS  113 

how  like  .  .  .  how  like  Henri,  when  he  was  that 
age!" 

The  old  man  nodded  gently.  The  past  was  com- 
ing back  to  the  old  people;  and  it  was  as  if  they 
saw  their  own  son  when  he  was  thirteen.  They 
were  so  much  surprised  at  this  that  they  could  only 
stare  at  the  boy,  as  though  they  did  not  believe  their 
eyes,  as  though  it  were  some  strange  dream. 

Constance  stood  stiffly  and  said  nothing.  But  the 
old  woman  now  said: 

"  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  us  to  see  you  here,  Con- 
stance." 

Constance  tried  to  smile: 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  pleasantly. 

"  But  do  sit  down,"  said  the  old  woman,  trembling, 
and  she  pointed  to  the  chairs. 

They  all  sat  down;  and  Henri  made  an  effort  to 
talk  naturally,  about  Driebergen.  The  past  that  lay 
between  them  was  so  high-heaped  that  it  seemed  as 
though  they  were  never  to  approach  one  another 
across  this  obstacle.  So  many  words  that  should 
have  been  spoken  had  remained  unspoken,  for  the 
sake  of  an  harmonious  silence,  that  silence  itself 
became  a  torture;  and  so  many  years  were  piled 
between  the  parents  and  the  children  that  it  seemed 
impossible  for  them  now  to  reach  one  another  with 
words.  The  words  fell  strangely  in  the  sombre 
room,  which  looked  out  upon  the  March  garden  and 
upon  the  road  paling  away  in  the  vague  mists;  the 
words  fell  like  things,  strangely,  like  hard,  round 


n4  SMALL  SOULS 

things,  material  things,  and  struck  against  one  an- 
other like  marbles  clashing  together.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  painful  talking  on  indifferent  topics  that 
was  almost  impossible.  For  the  words  constantly 
struck  against  things  of  the  past,  things  painful  to 
the  touch;  and  there  were  no  indifferent  topics. 
When  Henri  said  that  Driebergen  was  very  much 
changed,  he  was  referring  to  his  many  years  of  ab- 
sence. When  Constance  made  a  remark  about 
Brussels,  she  was  referring  to  her  long  residence 
there,  during  which  her  husband's  parents  had  re- 
fused to  see  her  and  looked  upon  her  as  a  disgrace. 
When  they  spoke  of  Addie's  life  as  a  small  child,  it 
was  as  though  they  two,  the  father  and  the  mother, 
were  reproaching  the  grandparents.  There  were  no 
indifferent  topics;  and  a  despairing  gloom  hung  be- 
tween the  old  people  and  the  child,  because  they 
could  not  reach  the  child  across  their  son  and  their 
daughter-in-law.  .  .  .  Outside,  the  wind  rose, 
howling;  the  heavy  grey  clouds  descended  upon  them 
like  a  damp  mist;  and  the  rain  clattered  down. 
Henri  had  thought  of  asking  his  father  to  take  him 
into  the  garden,  to  see  if  he  still  recognized  it,  but 
the  pelting  rain  prevented  him;  and  he  saw  nothing 
but  his  mother's  tears.  In  his  heart,  he  laid  these 
to  his  wife's  charge.  The  past  was  piled  up  as  a 
wall  between  each  soul  and  its  neighbour. 

The  boy  felt  it.  He  felt  his  breathing  oppressed 
with  all  that  gloom;  and  again  and  again  he  wanted 
to  sigh,  but  he  kept  back  his  sighs.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  say;  and  he  gave  his  grandparents  the  im- 


SMALL  SOULS  115 

pression  of  a  quiet,  subdued  child,  who  was  not 
happy.  They  spoke  to  him  too  as  old  people  do  to 
a  child,  with  condescending  kindness,  pointing  out 
the  little  things  in  the  room.  The  boy,  who  was  ac- 
customed to  be  a  man  standing  between  his  two  par- 
ents, answered  nothing  except  in  shy  monosyllables. 
Henri  and  Constance  avoided  looking  at  each 
other;  and  each  of  them,  even  in  the  same  conversa- 
tion, talked  as  it  were  separately  to  the  old  people. 
They  were  to  stay  to  lunch — the  old-fashioned  Dutch 
"  coffee-drinking  " — and  return  at  five  o'clock  to  the 
Hague.  The  butler  came  to  say  that  luncheon  was 
served  and  pushed  back  the  sliding  doors.  The  din- 
ing-room lay  on  this  side  of  the  great,  closed  con- 
servatory, a  gloomy  shadow  in  the  pale  daylight  that 
streaked  in  through  the  rain;  and  the  mahogany 
furniture  gleamed  with  reflected  lights,  the  table 
shone  white  and  glassy.  They  sat  down:  difficult 
words  fell  now  and  again  and  sounded  hard  in  the 
somewhat  chilly  room.  The  old  woman  with  much 
ceremony  offered  a  soft-boiled  egg,  or  a  tongue- 
sandwich  which  lay  neatly  arranged  with  its  fellows 
on  a  tray.  She  herself  filled  the  small  china  coffee- 
cups.  It  all  lasted  very  long,  was  all  very  solemn 
and  proper,  with  much  formality  about  the  egg  and 
the  sandwich.  Addie  felt  as  if  he  could  easily  swal- 
low both  the  egg  and  sandwich  in  one  gulp;  and  he 
had  to  restrain  himself  in  order  to  eat  the  egg  slowly 
and  neatly  in  little  spoonfuls  and  to  chew  the  sand- 
wich with  little  bites,  so  as  not  to  finish  too  soon  nor 
deprive  the  table  of  its  excuse  for  being  so  elabo- 


n6  SMALL  SOULS 

rately  laid.  He  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  still 
hungry  or  not  when  Grandmamma  offered  him  a  sec- 
ond sandwich;  but  he  took  it,  because  otherwise  he 
would  not  have  known  what  to  do  with  his  hands. 
He  sat  like  a  small,  stiff  little  boy,  shyly;  and,  when 
he  looked  up  at  his  father,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
too  was  sitting  as  if  he  had  eaten  his  sandwich  too 
fast.  Grandmamma  herself  buttered  his  bread  for 
him  and  offered  it  to  him,  ready  cut  into  strips.  He 
ate  the  narrow  fingers  with  a  great  effort  at  self- 
control. 

It  lasted  endlessly  long;  and  the  table  remained 
white,  bare  and  neat,  now  that  the  sandwiches  were 
finished;  the  empty  coffee-cups  gave  the  only  touch 
of  untidiness :  the  broken,  yellowy  egg-shells  Grand- 
mamma had  put  away  on  the  sideboard.  When  they 
rose,  Grandpapa  asked  Henri  to  come  and  smoke  a 
cigar  in  his  study ;  Grandmamma  stayed  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  Constance  and  Addie.  On  the  road  out- 
side, the  rain  splashed  in  the  puddles. 

Constance  felt  a  stranger  in  this  house.  Never- 
theless, her  mood  became  softer,  because  the  old 
woman's  eyes,  in  the  stiff,  silver-framed  face,  were 
still  sad  and  constantly  filled  with  tears.  She  was 
very  sensitive  to  any  emotion  in  another;  and,  though 
she  fought  against  it,  she  herself  felt  moved.  She 
wanted  to  talk  to  this  grandmother  about  her  grand- 
son; and  so  she  said  how  clever  he  was,  how  good 
to  his  parents.  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke  nodded  good- 
naturedly,  but  continued  to  look  upon  Addie  as  a 


SMALL  SOULS  117 

child,  while  Constance  was  talking  of  him  as  man. 
The  old  woman  did  not  fully  grasp  the  meaning  of 
Constance'  words,  but  the  sound  of  them  increased 
her  emotion.  She  called  Addle  to  her  side,  said 
that  he  must  come  and  stay  with  them  in  the  summer : 
it  was  delightful  in  the  country  then,  for  games. 
The  boy  had  it  on  his  lips  to  say  that  his  parents 
could  not  do  without  him;  but  he  felt  that  his  words 
would  sound  strange  and  elderly  and  priggish.  And 
he  only  said,  very  prettily: 

"  I  should  like  to,  Grandmamma." 

He  played  at  being  a  little  child,  because  Grand- 
mamma happened  to  look  upon  him  as  one.  Really 
he  was  thinking  of  something  very  different,  think- 
ing of  the  houses  which  he  had  seen  yesterday  with 
Papa  and  Mamma  and  which  his  parents  could  not 
agree  upon,  in  any  particular:  the  neighbourhood, 
the  division  of  the  rooms.  Because  he  knew  that 
the  hotel  was  expensive  and  that  both  Papa  and 
Mamma  would  become  less  fidgety  once  they  had  a 
house,  he  thought  of  cutting  the  Gordian  knot  and 
going  by  himself  to  the  owner  of  a  nice  house  near 
the  Woods,  not  so  very  far  from  Granny  van  Lowe's. 
If  he  didn't  interfere,  it  would  be  weeks  and  weeks 
before  Papa  and  Mamma  made  up  their  minds.  He 
knew  that  to  take  a  house  was  a  very  serious  matter, 
but  he  also  knew  that  Papa  and  Mamma  would  never 
agree.  He  must  needs,  therefore,  risk  something 
and  he  would  hope  for  the  best,  hope  that  all  would 
turn  out  well. 


n8  SMALL  SOULS 

"A  couple  of  houses  farther  on,  there  are  two 
very  nice  little  boys:  you  shall  see  them  when  you 
come  in  the  summer,  Adriaan." 

"  Yes,  Grandmamma." 

His  voice  sounded  very  refined  and  soft;  and  Con- 
stance had  to  smile.  But,  while  he  sat  there  stiffly, 
with  his  shoulders  squared  and  his  legs  close  to- 
gether, he  was  dividing  the  rooms  of  the  house  near 
the  Woods.  Mamma,  meanwhile,  was  exchanging 
toilsome  words  with  Grandmamma.  He  portioned 
out  the  rooms.  Downstairs,  the  drawing-room  and 
the  dining-room,  more  or  less  as  at  Uncle  Gerrit's: 
those  two  rooms  always  communicated  in  Holland, 
with  folding-doors  between  them.  And  the  little 
conservatory.  And  the  little  garden  was  quite  nice. 
Upstairs,  the  large  room  for  Mamma  and  the 
smaller  one  for  Papa;  and  it  was  jolly  that  he  him- 
self could  have  that  sort  of  turret-room,  with  a  bow- 
window,  in  between  their  two  bedrooms.  So  he 
would  be  between  Papa  and  Mamma.  Above  that, 
there  was  still  a  sort  of  attic  floor,  but  that  did  not 
concern  him:  Mamma  must  manage  that.  It  was 
rather  risky  perhaps,  to  go  to  that  fat  man  to-mor- 
row— a  contractor,  Papa  called  him — and  tell  him 
that  Papa  had  sent  him  to  say  that  he  would  take 
the  house.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  house  in  the  some- 
thing van  Nassaustraat  was  better,  bigger.  But  it 
was  dearer  also.  .  .  .  Perhaps  Papa  would  be  an- 
gry, if  he  acted  just  like  that,  off  his  own  bat;  but, 
of  course,  there  would  be  nothing  settled  in  black  and 
white.  Only,  if  Papa  and  Mamma  once  knew  that 


SMALL  SOULS  119 

he  had  been  to  the  fat  man,  well,  they  might  be  a 
little  angry  at  first,  might  squabble  a  bit  more;  and 
then  both  of  them  would  look  at  him  and  laugh  and 
they  would  take  the  house  and  everything  would  be 
all  right.  ...  If  they  did  not  decide  a  bit  quicker, 
if  they  went  on  squabbling,  their  Brussels  furniture 
would  suddenly  be  there,  in  front  of  their  noses,  and 
they  without  a  house  to  put  it  in.  ...  It  was  true, 
Granny  van  Lowe  had  said,  "  Be  careful  about  tak- 
ing a  house:"  that  was  all  very  well  when  people 
agreed;  but  that's  what  Papa  and  Mamma  never 
did.  They  had  come  to  Holland,  because  he  had 
said: 

"  Why,  I'm  a  Dutch  boy,  aren't  I  ?  Then  let's 
go!" 

Well,  they  would  take  the  house  after  he  had 
been  to  the  fat  man.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be 
done,  though  it  was  risky. 

Papa  came  downstairs  with  Grandpapa,  looking 
more  cheerful:  perhaps  he  had  been  talking  to  his 
father.  They  sat  on  a  little  longer  and  Papa  took 
out  his  watch  once  or  twice.  .  .  . 

Then  the  carriage  drove  up;  the  old  coachman, 
who  had  known  Papa  as  a  small  boy,  drove  them 
to  the  station,  where  they  arrived  twenty  minutes 
too  soon. 

Quietly,  without  speaking,  they  walked  up  and 
down,  waiting  for  the  train.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEXT  morning,  Addle  went  to  play  with  Uncle  Ger- 
rit  and  Aunt  Adeline's  children  and  thought  it  very 
jolly  to  romp  about  like  that  with  six  or  seven  little 
boy-  and  girl-cousins,  the  oldest  a  girl  of  eight  years 
and  the  youngest  a  baby  ten  months  old.  He  amused 
himself  in  a  fatherly  fashion  with  all  these  young- 
sters, inventing  new  games  and  causing  a  certain  sen- 
sation as  a  big,  new,  strong  cousin  of  thirteen.  The 
whole  morning,  however,  he  was  thinking  of  the  fat 
man,  to  whom  he  had  been  very  early  to  say  that 
Papa  would  probably  take  the  house  and  would  like 
him  to  call  at  the  Hotel  des  Indes  at  seven  o'clock 
that  evening.  He  had  gone  on  to  Uncle 'Gerrit's 
from  there,  and  in  his  heart  thought  it  rather  a  bore, 
for,  after  all,  he  must  prepare  Papa  and  Mamma  for 
the  visit  of  the  fat  man,  who  was  to  bring  a  draft 
of  the  lease  with  him.  So,  after  eating  a  sandwich 
at  Aunt  Adeline's,  he  played  a  little  longer  with  the 
children,  who  were  not  going  out,  because  it  was 
raining,  and,  soon  after,  hurried  to  the  Alexander- 
straat,  to  Granny  van  Lowe's,  where  he  knew  that 
he  would  find  Mamma.  Constance  was  sitting  with 
her  mother  and  telling  her  about  Papa  and  Mamma 
van  der  Welcke  and  how  they  had  received  her. 
Uncle  Paul  was  there.  Addie,  a  little  nervous,  asked 
where  Papa  was,  where  Papa  had  gone  that  after- 
noon. 

MO 


SMALL  SOULS  121 

"  Papa  went  to  look  at  a  couple  of  houses  in  the 
Nassau-Dillenburgstraat.  .  .  .  Did  you  enjoy  your- 
self at  Uncle  Gerrit's?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  are  nice  little  things.  What  are 
you  doing  this  afternoon,  Mamma?  " 

"  I  shall  stay  on  a  little  with  Granny  and  then  we 
are  both  going  to  Uncle  and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer's. 
Will  you  come  too,  Addie?  " 

"  Well,  I  really  want  to  talk  to  Papa." 

She  was  jealous  at  once: 

"  You  can  never  be  a  moment  without  your  father. 
What  does  it  mean?  I  haven't  seen  you  the  whole 
morning;  and  the  first  thing  you  do  is  to  ask  for 
Papa !  I  don't  know  where  Papa  is.  Papa  has  an 
appointment,  I  believe,  at  the  Witte  Club,  where  he 
was  to  meet  some  old  friends;  but  you  can't  go  to 
the  Witte!" 

"  Isn't  Papa  coming  back  to  dinner  at  the  hotel?  " 

"  I  believe  Papa  intended  to  stay  and  dine  at  the 
Witte.  But  I  really  don't  know.  I'm  not  in  the 
habit  of  controlling  Papa's  movements." 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully : 

"  I  must  absolutely  see  Papa  before  seven  o'clock, 
Mamma." 

"  But  why  before  seven  o'clock?  Is  there  any- 
thing you  want?  Won't  I  do?  Don't  I  count  at 
all?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  when  you're  not  so  cross.  The 
owner  of  the  house  in  the  Kerkhoflaan,  near  the 
Woods,  is  coming  to  call  before  seven." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 


122  SMALL  SOULS 

"  I  went  to  him  this  morning,  on  my  way  to  Uncle 
Gerrit's." 

"Well?" 

"  And  I  told  him  Papa  would  probably  take  the 
house  and  asked  him  to  come  to  the  hotel,  at  seven 
o'clock,  and  bring  a  draft  of  the  lease  with  him." 

He  suddenly  became  very  uncomfortable,  because 
his  grandmother  and  his  uncle  sat  staring  at  him. 

"  But,  Addie,"  said  Granny  van  Lowe,  not  quite 
understanding,  "  how  did  you  come  to  do  that?  Did 
Papa  tell  you  to  go?  " 

"  No,  Granny,  Papa  said  nothing  about  it,  but  it's 
a  very  nice  house  indeed;  and,  if  Papa  and  Mamma 
could  only  agree,  I  wouldn't  interfere;  but,  as  it  is, 
I  really  must.  Otherwise  the  furniture  will  be  here 
from  Brussels  and  Papa  and  Mamma  still  looking 
for  a  house,  each  in  a  different  part  of  the  town." 

He  talked  fluently,  but  he  was  very  uncomfortable 
and  his  face  was  as  red  as  fire,  for  it  was  plain  that 
Granny  did  not  yet  understand;  and  Uncle  Paul  sat 
shaking  with  laughter  and  trying  to  pull  him  be- 
tween his  knees;  and  this  was  no  moment  for  romp- 
ing. 

"  Oh,  don't,  Uncle  Paul,  please !  .  .  ." 

But  Paul  laughed  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulders ; 
and  Grandmamma  frowned;  and  yet  it  was  really 
very  simple;  and  Mamma  thought  so  too,  for  she 
said,  calmly: 

"  Oh,  you  went  to  that  house,  did  you?  .  .  . 
The  one  near  the  Woods.  .  ,  .  How  many  rooms 
did  we  say  there  were?  " 


SMALL  SOULS  123 

"  There  are  the  two  rooms  opening  into  each 
other  on  the  ground-floor,"  said  Addie,  standing, 
with  a  serious  face,  between  Paul's  knees.  "  Up- 
stairs, you  can  have  the  big  bedroom  and  Papa  the 
smaller  one,  with  a  little  room  next  to  it  as  a  smok- 
ing-room; and  then  I  should  like  that  turret-room, 
with  the  bow-window,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"Yes;  but,  Addie,  the  house  in  the  Emmastraat 
has  bigger  rooms." 

"  It  is  farther  from  Granny  and  two  hundred 
guilders  dearer;  so  put  the  house  in  the  Emmastraat 
out  of  your  mind.  .  .  ." 

Granny  van  Lowe  sat  looking  before  her  in  dumb 
amazement;  Paul  listened  attentively;  and  Con- 
stance and  Addie  continued  to  discuss  the  merits  and 
demerits  of  the  two  houses: 

"  There's  a  big  cellar  in  the  house  near  the  Woods 
.  .  .  and  a  nice  little  garden,  do  you  remember? 
.  .  .  And  I  think  it  jolly  to  be  close  to  the  Woods." 

"  Yes;  but,  Addie,  it  seems  to  me  that,  in  the  Em- 
mastraat .  .  ." 

"  Do  put  that  house  out  of  your  mind,  Mamma : 
it's  damp.  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  contractor  is  coming,  you  say?  " 

"  Yes,  at  seven  o'clock." 

Mamma  van  Lowe  could  only  sit  and  stare  at  her 
daughter  and  her  grandson  by  turns.  Paul  burst 
into  a  fresh  roar  of  laughter  at  the  sight  of  his 
mother's  face. 

"  Yes,  Mother,  these  are  the  times  we  live  in !  I 
never  dared  take  a  house  for  you;  now  did  I?  " 


124  SMALL  SOULS 

Constance  for  the  first  time  appeared  to  realize 
that  Addie  must  seem  a  little  queer  to  her  mother: 

"  Oh,  he's  always  like  that !  "  she  said.  "  He  helps 
us.  He's  a  man.  Aren't  you,  my  man?  .  .  ." 

He  now  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her,  to  please 
her: 

"  So  you  see,  I  must  find  Papa  before  seven  o'clock, 
or  he'll  be  angry,"  he  said,  keeping  to  the  point. 

"  Well,  shall  we  go  round  to  the  Witte  together?  " 
asked  Paul. 

"  Oh,  Uncle,  that  would  be  awfully  good  of  you !  " 

"  But  I  can't  take  you  in,  old  chap !  " 

"  No,  Uncle,  I'll  wait  outside,  if  you'll  just  look 
for  Papa  and  tell  him  I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

"  About  a  house  you've  taken  for  him !  " 

"  No,  don't  be  silly,  Uncle." 

"Good-bye,  Constance;  good-bye,  Mamma:  I'm 
going  with  my  Nephew  Addie  ...  to  the  Witte !  " 

And  Paul  stood  up,  choking  with  laughter,  while 
Addie,  afraid  of  missing  his  father,  urged  him  to 
hurry. 

"  But,  my  dear,"  asked  Mrs.  van  Lowe,  "  does 
your  boy  always  take  the  law  into  his  own  hands  like 
that?" 

"  Oh,  Mamma,  he  is  such  a  help  to  us!  " 

"  But  what  a  way  to  bring  him  up !  That's  not  a 
boy  of  thirteen!  " 

"  He  is  a  very  uncommon  child.  Where  should 
we  be  if  he  didn't  help  us." 

"  So  you  think  Van  der  Welcke  will  take  the  house 
near  the  Woods?  " 


SMALL  SOULS     ,  125 

"  I'm  sure  of  it!  .  .  .  And  I'm  quite  sure  too 
that,  if  Addie  hadn't  interfered,  in  another  six 
months  we  should  still  be  at  the  hotel !  " 

Next  day,  Van  der  Welcke,  Constance  and  Addie 
went  to  have  one  more  look  at  the  house  near  the 
Woods. 

And  the  house  was  taken,  on  a  five  years'  lease. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHILE  Constance  went  in  and  out  of  the  shops,  on 
her  numberless  errands,  Paul  never  left  her  side: 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  glad  to  have  some  one  to  lis- 
ten to  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  "  what  I  call 
human  wretchedness  is  not  confined  to  the  social 
question,  but  exists  everywhere,  everywhere.  .  .  . 
Look  around  you,  in  the  street.  It's  raining;  and 
people  are  walking  under  dripping  umbrellas.  Look 
at  those  women  in  front  of  us:  wet  skirts;  muddy 
shoes,  worn  at  heel,  splashing  through  the  puddles: 
that  is  human  wretchedness.  .  .  .  Look  at  that 
man  over  there:  fat  stomach;  squinting  eyes;  gouty 
fingers  clutching  a  shabby  umbrella-handle:  that  is 
human  wretchedness.  .  .  .  Everything  that  is  ugly, 
squalid,  muddy,  drab,  abnormal  from  any  one  point 
of  view  is  human  wretchedness.  .  .  .  Look  at  all 
those  shops,  where  you  buy — or  don't  buy — trashy 
manufactured  things  that  have  blood  clinging  to 
them,  things  which  you  are  now  pretending  that  you 
need  for  your  house:  that  is  human  wretchedness. 
.  .  .  It's  all  ugly;  and  the  trail  of  a  morbid  civiliza- 
tion shows  through  it  all.  .  .  .  Look  around  you, 
at  those  big,  lying  letters,  those  gaudy  posters :  that 
is  human  wretchedness.  One  cheats  the  other;  and 
the  whole  thing  has  become  such  a  matter  of  system 
that  nobody  is  really  taken  in.  It's  the  same  with 
politics  and  religion  as  with  a  pound  of  sugar  or  a 

126 


SMALL  SOULS  127 

box  of  throat-lozenges.  It  is  all  humbug  and  all 
human  wretchedness.  And  it  drags  on,  piecemeal, 
through  any  average  human  life.  It  is  all  squalid, 
vulgar,  insincere,  selfish,  ugly  and  full  of  human 
wretchedness.  You  think  me  a  pessimist?  Far 
from  it.  I  am  an  idealist:  in  my  own  mind,  I  see 
everything  in  a  rosy  light.  My  power  of  imagina- 
tion is  so  strong  that  I  see  everything  white  and  gold 
and  blue,  like  the  marble  statues  of  ancient  temples, 
with  their  blue  sky  and  golden  sun.  But,  when  I 
take  leave  of  my  imagination,  then  I  see  that  every- 
thing is  human  wretchedness:  wars;  politics;  the  fat 
stomach  of  our  friend  yonder;  the  rain;  and  those 
pots  and  pans  which  you're  wanting  for  your  kitchen. 
All  life,  high  and  low,  general  and  individual,  in  the 
masses  and  in  the  classes,  is  squalid,  ugly,  insincere 
and  full  of  human  wretchedness.  Look  at  that  crea- 
ture over  there.  What  a  miserable  object:  she  is 
knock-kneed;  her  nose  is  a  yard  long;  and  the  rea- 
son why  she's  in  this  filthy  street  is  absurd!  You 
think  I  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  but  I  do. 
You  never  see  anything  beautiful  except  at  the  thea- 
tre, or  in  a  book,  or  in  a  picture  or  an  etching  .  .  . 
or  in  a  great  writer  taking  up  his  pen  in  defence  of 
some  outcast,  as  Zola  did.  But  even  then  there  is 
very  little ;  and  I  at  once  see  the  human  wretchedness 
through  it  all:  the  pose,  the  affectation — even  that  of 
soberness — the  ambition  to  succeed,  or  to  imitate 
some  one  or  other.  No  one  has  a  pure  thought 
for  purity's  sake  .  .  .  except  a  fellow  like  Zola. 
There's  no  beauty  anywhere.  Have  you  ever  no- 


128  SMALL  SOULS 

ticed,  in  a  train,  or  in  a  tram-car,  or  at  a  theatre,  all 
those  stupid,  ugly  faces,  those  crooked  bodies,  either 
too  fat  or  too  thin,  one  with  a  blink — like  this — an- 
other with  a  squint — like  that — this  one  with  little 
hairs  in  his  ears  and  that  one  with  hands  that  make 
you  sick.  I  don't  know  if  you  understand  me;  but 
all  of  this,  with  politics  and  the  social  question  and 
those  swarms  of  fat  stomachs  like  our  friend's  just 
now:  all  of  this  is  what  I  call  human  wretched- 
ness. ...  I  may  write  a  book  about  it  some  day; 
but  perhaps  my  book  itself  would  be  merely  human 
wretchedness.  .  .  ." 

In  the  meantime,  he  had  been  following  his  sister 
into  three  shops,  one  after  the  other,  and  she  had 
managed  to  make  her  purchases  in  between  his  phi- 
losophizings.  Whenever  he  saw  his  chance,  he  went 
on  speaking,  walking  aslant  beside  her  and  talking 
into  her  ear,  constantly  having  to  move  off  the  nar- 
row pavements  of  the  Hoogstraat  and  Veenestraat, 
losing  her  for  a  moment,  because  they  were  sepa- 
rated by  a  couple  of  carriages  going  at  a  foot-pace, 
but  soon  catching  her  up  again.  And  he  never  lost 
the  thread  of  his  thoughts: 

"  I  see  that  you  have  never  reflected  much,  just 
like  most  women.  What  I  say  is  quite  new  to  you. 
You  have  not  even  observed  much.  You  should  ob- 
serve, you  should  note  all  the  queer  things  and  people 
about  you.  Not  that  you  and  I  ourselves  are  not 
queer  and  behave  queerly.  We  can't  help  it.  We 
too  stumble  along  in  our  human  wretchedness.  But 
in  your  boy — it  was  quite  attractive — I  saw  some- 


SMALL   SOULS  129 

thing  funny;  and  yet  he  was  very  serious,  much  too 
serious  for  a  child.  Your  boy,  your  boy  is  certainly 
a  man  of  the  future.  Sometimes  you  see  a  thing 
like  that  in  a  child :  then  you  say  to  yourself,  '  He'll 
be  this,  he'll  be  that,  he'll  be  the  other,  later  on, 
when  he  grows  up.'  Do  you  follow  me?  No,  I 
see  you  don't  follow  me.  It's  just  your  motherly 
vanity  that  feels  flattered  !  Oh,  how  small  you  are  1 
That  is  your  human  wretchedness  I  Don't  you  see 
the  sunniness  in  your  boy?  No,  you  don't  see  it.  I 
saw  it  at  once.  It  was  most  attractive.  Not  one  of 
Bertha's  or  Gerrit's  or  Adolphine's  children  has  it. 
I  can't  explain  it  to  you,  you  know,  if  you  don't  un- 
derstand. .  .  .  Yes,  Sissy,  life  is  not  gay.  You 
are  forty-two  and  I  am  only  thirty-five,  but  I  find  it 
no  gayer  than  you  do.  I  see  through  everything  too 
clearly.  I  should  never  be  able,  consciously,  to  join 
in  anything  that  had  to  do  with  human  wretched- 
ness, to  join  in  rushing  after  an  unnecessary  object. 
That  is  why  I  do  nothing,  except  observe.  I'm  a 
dilettante,  you  see.  My  income  is  enough  to  live 
on;  and  I  loathe  myself  for  playing  the  capitalist 
with  a  bit  of  money  like  that,  like  the  middle-classes ; 
but  I  can't  help  it,  you  know.  I  ought  to  have  been 
rich,  very  rich.  I  should  have  planted  a  castle  on 
a  mountain-top,  amid  the  whiteness  of  the  Alps,  and 
I  would  have  done  a  great  deal  to  mend  human 
wretchedness;  but  I  would  not  have  had  it  around 
me.  I  hate  it  so:  I  turn  sick  at  the  smell  of  a  beg- 
gar; and  meantime  my  heart  breaks  and  I  feel  a 
physical  compassion  for  the  poor  devil.  It's  the 


i3o  SMALL    SOULS 

fault  of  my  stomach  or  my  nerves:  they  simply  turn. 
It's  very  unfortunate  when  you're  built  that 
way.  .  .  .  How  do  you  like  my  new  overcoat,  with 
the  velvet  turn-back  cuffs?  They're  rather  neat, 
aren't  they?  Pity  they're  getting  wet.  But  it's 
good  velvet,  it  doesn't  spoil.  .  .  .  And  yet,  yester- 
day, I  was  really  alarmed  when  I  saw  my  back  in 
two  looking-glasses.  I  had  no  idea  that  I  had  such 
a  rotten  back,  a  back  full  of  human  wretchedness, 
in  spite  of  my  fine  overcoat.  The  line  went  like  that, 
with  a  sort  of  hump.  It  was  terrible ;  it  upset  me  for 
all  the  rest  of  the  day.  Then,  in  the  evening,  I  sat 
down  at  my  piano  and  played  Isolde's  Liebestod; 
and  then  it  all  passed.  .  .  .  You  can't  make  your 
little  brother  out,  eh  ?  A  mad  chap,  you  think,  what  ? 
Yes,  I  am — almost — the  maddest  of  the  bunch. 
Bertha  is  very  well-balanced;  only,  her  eyes  are  al- 
ways blinking.  .  .  .  Karel:  what  he  might  have 
become,  I  don't  know;  but  now  he  is  a  round  nought, 
kept  in  equilibrium  by  the  roundness  of  Cateau  with 
her  owl's  eyes.  .  .  .  Then  you  have  Gerrit:  he 
looks  well-balanced,  but  isn't;  puts  on  a  jovial  and 
genial  air;  and  is  a  melancholy  dreamer  all  the  time. 
You  don't  believe  it?  You'll  see  it  for  yourself, 
when  you  know  him  better.  .  .  .  Next  come  you: 
well,  you  yourself  tell  me  you've  had  a  strange  life 
with  your  two  husbands.  .  .  .  After  that,  they  all 
go  down-hill :  Ernst  behaves  very  oddly ;  Dorine  too 
is  sometimes  queer,  with  that  everlasting  trotting 
about;  and  I  look  at  all  their  queerness  and  have  a 
tile  loose  myself.  ...  So  you  think  we  are  a  very 


SMALL    SOULS  131 

sensible  family?  My  dear  Constance,  we  have  a 
great  crack  nmnjjig_righL..thrQugh  us,  slanting,  like 
that !  But  we  are  nice  people  and  we  don't  let  the 
world  know.  You  wait:  you'll  see.  And  now, 
Sissy,  here's  your  tram  and  here  I  leave  you.  .  .  ." 
He  helped  her  in;  and  she  saw  him  walk  away 
under  his  umbrella,  carefully  drying  with  his  hand- 
kerchief the  velvet  turn-back  cuffs  of  his  new  over- 
coat. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THOSE  were  busy  days  at  the  Van  Naghels,  full  of 
all  kinds  of  excitement.  Emilie  was  to  be  married 
in  three  weeks;  and  in  a  fortnight  Van  Naghel  and 
Bertha  expected  their  son  Otto  back  from  India,  with 
his  young  wife  and  their  two  children. 

Otto  had  taken  his  degree  early,  married  and  gone 
to  Java  at  twenty-four  with  a  billet  in  the  civil  serv- 
ice. But  he  was  unable  to  stay,  because  his  wife  had 
fallen  ill  on  the  day  of  their  arrival  at  Batavia  and 
she  had  been  ill  ever  since.  It  annoyed  Van  Naghel 
to  see  his  son's  career  interrupted,  even  though  he 
was  still  young  and  Van  Naghel  could  easily  find  him 
another  appointment  in  Holland.  But  he  had  al- 
ways been  against  this  match:  a  delicate  Dutch  girl, 
with  no  money.  They  would  have  to  take  charge 
of  the  children,  in  Holland;  and,  though  he  was  well 
off,  though  his  wife  had  some  money  of  her  own, 
though  he  had  his  salary  as  a  minister,  it  was,  all 
told,  scarcely  enough  for  the  very  expensive  estab- 
lishment which  they  kept  up:  the  eldest  son  on  his 
way  home  from  India  with  his  wife  and  two  chil- 
dren; two  boys,  Ffans  and  Henri,  who  had  been  at 
Leiden  for  over  two  years  and  who  were  obviously 
in  no  hurry  to  take  their  degrees;  three  girls  who  were 
all  out,  the  second  of  whom  was  now  going  to  be 
married;  another  boy,  of  sixteen,  and  a  girl  of  four- 
teen; their  salon,  to  gratify  Van  Naghel's  ambition, 

132 


SMALL    SOULS  133 

an  official  salon,  a  meeting-place  for  members  of  the 
higher  government-circles,  while  the  diplomatic  set 
just  passed  through  it;  so  expensive  an  establishment, 
from  first  to  last,  that  Bertha  had  to  work  miracles 
of  economy  to  keep  things  going  on  fifty  thousand 
guilders,  more  or  less,  a  year.  And  everything  was 
growing  dearer:  the  two  boys,  Frans  and  Henri, 
cost  almost  three  times  as  much  as  Otto  had  cost; 
Emilie  and  Marianne,  of  whom  the  former  had  been 
out  three  years  and  the  other  just  one,  had  much 
grander  ideas,  in  every  way,  than  Louise,  who  had 
been  out  six;  the  boys  at  Leiden  were  both  to  take 
part  in  the  masque  this  year;  Emilie  was  receiving 
a  trousseau  that  cost  three  times*  as  much  as  the  one 
which  Bertha  had  had  in  her  day  from  Papa  and 
Mamma  van  Lowe;  Marianne  must  have  her  sim- 
plest dresses  lined  with  silk;  Karel,  the  schoolboy,  a 
tall,  thin,  weakly  lad,  but  nevertheless  a  member  of 
all  sorts  of  football-,  cricket-  and  tennis-clubs,  had 
an  allowance  for  pocket-money  that  was  positively 
ridiculous;  and  Bertha  saw  tendencies  in  her  young- 
est girl  that  made  her  anxious  for  the  future.  And 
so,  outwardly,  it  was  a  great  house  full  of  move- 
ment: Papa  a  minister,  the  girls  presented  at  Court, 
the  boys  spending  money  lustily;  and,  inwardly,  there 
was  many  a  despondent  conversation  between  Van 
Naghel  and  Bertha  as  to  how  they  could  possibly 
economize:  of  course,  Otto  must  be  helped  first;  the 
boys,  of  course,  must  take  their  degrees  first;  the 
girls,  of  course,  were  bound  to  go  out;  and  Karel, 
of  course,  was  obliged  to  keep  up  his  football-  and 


i34  SMALL   SOULS 

cricket-clubs.  They  might  give  one  dinner  less 
each  winter,  but  that  was  really  the  only  thing.  And, 
if  the  boys,  after  taking  their  degrees,  were  to  cost 
as  much  money  as  Otto  was  costing  now;  if  Louise 
and  Marianne  also  got  married  and  had  to  have  the 
same  trousseau  as  Emilie :  if  it  was  to  go  on  like  that, 
always  and  always,  with  never  a  moment  for  taking 
breath  and  saving  a  little:  then  they  did  not  know 
what  they  were  to  do;  for,  let  Bertha  calculate  as 
much  as  she  pleased,  the  thing  was  not  to  be  done  on 
fifty  thousand  guilders  a  year. 

Then,  if  Van  Naghel  lost  his  temper,  he  re- 
proached Bertha,  saying  that  it  was  all  her  fault, 
that  she  was  a  Van  Lowe,  that  the  Van  Lowes  had 
never  been  able  to  calculate,  that  the  Van  Lowes' 
own  housekeeping  had  been  run  on  much  too  extrav- 
agant a  scale,  in  the  old  days;  but  Bertha,  blinking 
her  eyes  unmoved,  reminded  him  that  he  owed  his 
career  to  Papa  van  Lowe,  to  Papa's  connections  in 
the  years,  following  upon  his  term  as  governor-gen- 
eral, when  he  still  had  a  great  deal  of  influence  in 
Holland;  and  she  showed  him  her  housekeeping- 
accounts,  in  which  she  had  carefully  made  the  differ- 
ent entries,  telling  him  that,  if  he  absolutely  insisted 
upon  living  on  the  scale  they  did,  it  could  not  be 
done  for  less,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
And,  seeing  no  way  out  of  it,  they  made  friends 
again  and  did  not  mention  the  subject  of  money  for 
another  month;  and,  outwardly,  it  was  the  regular 
household  of  a  minister  of  state,  full  of  solid  Dutch 
comfort,  with  a  tinge  of  modernity  superadded:  the 


SMALL   SOULS  135 

children  very  much  up-to-date,  but  the  parents,  never- 
theless, sensible  people  of  weight  and  distinction, 
quite  aware  how  far  they  themselves  could  go  and 
how  far  they  could  let  the  children  go.  The  real 
position  was  not  even  suspected  by  a  soul.  Bertha 
never  spoke  to  anybody,  not  even  to  her  mother,  of 
anything  that  had  the  faintest  connection  with 
money.  To  their  relations  and  friends,  the  house  in 
the  Bezuidenhout  spread  its  broad  front  with  such  an 
air  of  solid  dignity,  the  staircases,  the  drawing-rooms 
and  dining-room  with  their  stately,  handsome  furni- 
ture, the  children's  rooms — more  modern  in  style,  but 
still  with  no  flimsy  affectation  of  tawdry  elegance — 
all  made  so  great  an  impression  of  imperishable  pros- 
perity that  no  one  could  ever  have  suspected  that  the 
two  parents  sometimes  sat  reckoning  up  for  hours 
at  a  time  to  see  whether  they  could  reduce  their  ex- 
penses by  as  much  as  a  thousand  guilders  that  month. 
In  this  house  of  theirs,  notwithstanding  all  the  bus- 
tle, the  dinners,  the  approaching  wedding,  the  ap- 
proaching home-coming  of  the  eldest  son,  for  whom 
a  set  of  rooms  was  being  prepared  on  the  top  floor, 
everything  seemed  to  go  so  methodically,  without  any 
trouble — busily,  it  is  true,  but  quite  harmoniously — 
that  no  one  would  ever  have  suspected  the  least  diffi- 
culty. Mamma  van  Lowe  was  constantly  at  Ber- 
tha's during  these  days  and  even  neglected  Constance 
a  little;  but  she  loved  this  bustle:  the  alterations  on 
the  top  floor;  the  fuss  about  the  trousseau;  the  re- 
hearsals of  the  wedding-theatricals;  the  long  tables 
to  be  laid,  the  flowers  to  be  arranged,  the  visits  to'be 


136  SMALL    SOULS 

discussed;  dresses  brought  home;  the  undergradu- 
ates constantly  at  the  Hague,  noisy,  merry  and 
young:  the  old  woman  loved  all  this;  it  reminded  her 
of  her  own  house  in  the  old  days ;  it  was  like  a  repeti- 
tion of  her  young  life:  only,  she  thought,  she  herself 
had  often  worried  about  money,  even  though  Van 
Lowe  had  been  able  to  save  during  his  term  as  gov- 
ernor-general, and  Bertha  was  so  entirely  without 
financial  cares!  How  delightful  that  was!  And 
she,  as  the  grandmother,  also  interested  herself  in 
Emilie's  trousseau;  she  gave  her  advice  and  never 
thought  about  money;  she  slowly  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  top  floor,  to  see  the  nursery  which  had  been 
got  ready  for  her  two  great-grandchildren  on  the 
way  home  from  India,  proud  of  that  fourth  genera- 
tion, delighting  in  that  large  family,  that  busy  house- 
hold, all  that  movement,  which  she  missed  so  greatly 
in  her  own  house,  where  her  quiet  life  was  inter- 
rupted only  by  those  family-gatherings  every  Sunday 
evening.  Yes,  she  loved  being  with  Van  Naghel  and 
Bertha ;  she  loved  to  see  her  son-in-law  take  a  promi- 
nent place  in  society,  as  her  husband  had  done  in  his 
time;  she  loved  the  solid,  dignified,  official  house; 
and  the  modernity  of  the  children,  although  now  and 
again  she  would  shake  her  head  in  disapproval,  made 
her  smile  for  all  that,  because  she  thought  that  peo- 
ple must  go  with  the  times  and  that  Van  Naghel  and 
Bertha  were  very  sensible  not  to  hold  the  reins  too 
tightly.  It  was  true,  there  were  manners  which  she 
did  not  like:  that  going  out  of  young  girls  alone, 
letting  themselves  in  at  night  with  their  latch-keys; 


SMALL   SOULS  137 

but  then  it  was  only  to  a  few  personal  friends,  said 
Bertha,  and  it  was  impossible  to  make  other  arrange- 
ments. Yes,  the  old  woman  loved  being  here,  in 
the  house  of  her  eldest  daughter;  and,  though  she 
cared  for  all  her  children,  because  they  were  her 
children,  she  felt  more  in  her  element  at  Bertha's 
than  in  the  comfortable,  middle-class,  selfish  house  of 
Karel  and  Cateau,  whom  she  blamed  for  having  no 
children;  and,  though,  she  also  liked  Gerrit  and  Ade- 
line's younger  household,  with  the  children  ranging 
from  eight  years  down  to  ten  months,  a  troop  of 
fair-haired  mites,  things  were  too  simple  and  every- 
day for  her  there,  did  not  remind  her  of  her  ancient 
splendours;  she  could  not  stand  Gerrit  sometimes, 
when  he  made  fun  of  his  old  mother  for  mentioning, 
quite  casually,  that  she  had  met  the  Russian  envoy  at 
Bertha's.  And  going  to  Adolphine  and  Van  Saet- 
zema's  always  vexed  her:  it  was  as  though  she  did 
not  recognize  her  child  in  Adolphine,  with  her  badly- 
arranged,  common  house  and  Adolphine  so  bitter 
and  so  envious  and  jealous  of  Bertha,  especially  now 
that  Floortje  was  engaged  and  her  trousseau,  of 
course,  could  not  be  as  fine  as  Emilie's.  Yes,  she 
went  to  Adolphine's  and  discussed  the  trousseau 
there  also,  but  she  did  not  care  about  it:  not  because 
it  was  simple — a  trouseau  could  be  very  nice  in  spite 
of  that — but  because  Adolphine  was  always  so  spite- 
ful, with  her  perpetual  "  Yes,  that's  good  enough 
for  us;  but,  of  course,  at  Bertha's!  .  .  ."  She  felt 
herself  a  mother  to  all  her  children — had  she  a  fa- 
vourite? She  thought  not — but  she  was  very  fond 


138  SMALL    SOULS 

of  going  to  Bertha's,  because  she  found  her  own  past 
there. 

And  what  the  old  woman  loved  above  all  things 
in  Bertha's  house  was  the  mutual  sympathy,  the  fam- 
ily-affection which  she  had  always  fostered  in  her  own 
house,  which  she  still  fostered,  thanks  to  the  insti- 
tution of  those  Sunday  evenings,  to  keep  the  children 
together  at  all  costs.  Yes,  in  Van  Naghel  and  Ber- 
tha that  sentiment,  that  constant  thought  for  the 
children  was  very  strong;  and  there  was  one  thing 
which  Mamma  van  Lowe  had  not  done  and  which 
Bertha  was  doing,  which  was  to  receive  the  son 
again,  after  he  had  once  left  the  house,  now  that 
he  was  returning  with  a  sick  wife  and  two  little  chil- 
dren. It  touched  her:  oh,  how  good  they  were  to 
their  tribe;  and  what  a  thousand  pities  that  that  little 
doll-wife  was  so  ill !  And  the  children,  too,  had  that 
same  family-affection  among  themselves.  Otto  had 
always  kept  up  a  busy  correspondence  with  his  eldest 
sister,  Louise,  who  was  twenty-five  and  came  next 
to  him  in  age;  the  two  Leiden  boys  were  exceedingly 
nice  to  their  three  fashionable  little  sisters  and  Henri 
was  even  a  little  bit  jealous  because  Emilie  was  en- 
gaged; only  Karel  was  perhaps  rather  too  much  out 
of  doors  and  away  from  the  family-circle  for  so 
young  a  boy,  with  all  his  clubs  and  his  importance; 
and,  because  of  that,  Marietje,  the  youngest  girl,  of 
fourteen,  was  left  a  good  deal  alone.  And  yet  they 
all  liked  Marietje:  her  big  brothers,  the  other 
girls.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  the  charming  thing  with 
all  those  children:  the  family-affection,  the  fondness 


SMALL    SOULS  139 

for  one  another,  the  pride  in  the  names  of  Van  Lowe 
and  Van  Naghel,  the  refusal  to  suffer  any  outsider 
to  say  a  word  against  a  member  of  the  family,  even 
though  criticism  was  not  spared  within  the  home 
itself.  But  that  any  acquaintance  should  dare  to 
reflect  upon  a  member  of  the  family,  that  they  would 
none  of  them  permit.  They  had  felt  that  fondness, 
that  tenderness,  even  for  Constance,  because  she  was 
a  sister.  And  the  old  lady  remembered,  in  so  far  as 
concerned  Constance,  the  philosophical  reflexions  of 
her  youngest  son,  Paul;  the  trouble  which  Dorine 
had  taken  to  assemble  all  the  brothers  and  sisters 
on  that  first  Sunday-evening;  the  ready  compliance 
of  all  her  children,  for,  out  of  respect  to  her,  none 
of  them  had  criticized  that  erring  sister  in  front  of 
her.  She  saw  it  in  all  of  them :  the  family-affection 
for  one  another.  They  all  felt  themselves  to  be 
brothers  and  sisters ;  they  stood  up  for  one  another, 
even  though  there  were  differences  of  opinion  some- 
times and  even  jealousy;  they  felt  united  within  the 
family-circle. 

That  was  the  crowning  glory  of  her  old  age,  as 
a  mother  and  grandmother.  It  represented  to  her  a 
beautiful  idea,  a  natural  ideal,  an  illusion  attained: 
a  comfort  for  the  peaceful  declining  years  of  the 
lonely  woman  in  her  big  house.  That  she  preferred 
to  be  lonely  in  her  big  house  and  would  not  have 
Dorine,  nor  Ernst,  nor  Paul  to  live  with  her  was 
an  eccentricity  which  in  no  way  detracted  from  her 
cult  of  the  beautiful  idea,  from  her  perfect  happi- 
ness at  seeing  the  ideal  realized,  the  illusion  attained. 


i4o  SMALL   SOULS 

She  had  a  happy  old  age.  She  had  also  had  much 
sorrow  in  her  big  household,  in  spite  of  all  her  splen- 
dour, but  not  more  than  her  natural  share:  money- 
troubles,  because  neither  Van  Lowe  nor  she  was 
economical;  two  children  lost,  one  after  the  other; 
while  Constance'  false  step  was  certainly  a  very  heavy 
blow,  under  which  she  suspected  that  Van  Lowe  had 
really  succumbed,  suffering  silently  and  incessantly 
because  of  the  grief  which  his  favourite  daughter 
had  caused  him.  .  .  .  But  she,  though  she  too  had 
suffered,  had  shown  greater  elasticity,  had  not 
counted  all  that  sorrow  for  more  than  her  human  lot, 
such  as  might  befall  any  large  household.  And  that 
she  now,  in  her  extreme  old  age,  had  all  her  children 
gathered  about  her  in  the  same  town,  in  a  close  fam- 
ily-circle, in  an  affectionate  family-life:  this  she  con- 
sidered a  great  happiness;  she  thanked  God  for  it. 
She  had  no  more  religion  of  the  church-going  kind 
than  was  held  to  be  correct  in  her  circle,  which  was 
very  different  from  the  orthodox  Calvinistic  circle 
of  a  few  old  Hague  families;  but  she  was  grateful  to 
God  in  her  heart.  She  thanked  God  for  her  hap- 
piness, for  her  happy  old  age.  All  was  well,  now 
that  she  had  Constance  back  also,  back  with  the 
others  at  the  Hague.  Next  to  Buitenzorg,  the 
Hague  had  always  been  to  her  the  ideal  place  of  resi- 
dence. The  Court  was  there;  and  her  husband  had 
taught  her  to  love  splendour.  There  was  an  at- 
mosphere of  official  eminence  in  their  circle  in  which 
she  took  pleasure  as  in  an  element  that  had  become 
natural  to  her  and  in  which  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha 


SMALL   SOULS  141 

also  had  attained  their  distinction  and  their  high 
position.  Karel  had  returned  to  the  Hague,  after 
bufgomastering  elsewhere;  and  in  him  she  had  her 
son  back  again,  although,  in  her  secret  heart,  she  did 
not  like  Cateau.  Gerrit,  who  had  been  a  subaltern 
at  Deventer  and  Venlo,  was  now  a  captain  at  the 
Hague.  And  the  other  children  had  never  left  the 
Hague;  she  had  always  been  able  to  keep  them 
round  her. 

She  was  happy  and  she  was  not  unthankful.  She 
was  even  thankful  that  Otto  was  returning — al- 
though the  reason,  his  wife's  illness,  was  a  sad  one 
— because  she  would  see  her  great-grandchildren. 
They  were  her  first;  she  felt  a  new  joy  because  of 
them,  an  unknown  emotion.  She  had  felt  something 
like  it  when  Otto  himself  was  born,  her  first  grand- 
child; but  now  that  feeling  was  almost  more  intense, 
perhaps  because  it  was  a  fourth  generation,  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  family,  even  though  they  were  Van 
Naghels  and  not  Van  Lowes.  She  was  a  woman: 
she  did  not  care  so  much  about  the  name.  Bertha 
was  her  daughter,  Otto  her  grandson,  his  children 
her  grandchildren.  She  traced  them  back  in  this 
way  to  herself  and  the  sound  of  the  name  mattered 
less  to  her.  They  were  her  children,  her  grand- 
children, her  great-grandchildren;  and  she  loved 
them  all,  with  one  great  love,  with  a  clannish  love. 
That  she  lived  alone  in  her  big  house  was  because 
she  was  old  and  could  bear  bustle  only  when  it  was 
expected,  when  she  could  prepare  for  it.  The  Sun- 
day evenings  were  bustling,  but  they  did  not  tire  her. 


i42  SMALL   SOULS 

But  to  have  Paul  or  Dorine  living  with  her,  to  be 
for  ever  hearing  them  going  in  and  out  would  have 
worked  on  her  nerves.  She  wandered  daily  through 
all  the  rooms  of  the  big  house  to  see  if  everything 
was  tidy  and  in  its  place.  Dorine  was  slovenly;  and 
Paul  was  anything  but  easy  to  get  on  with;  and 
Ernst,  with  his  collection  of  curiosities,  she  would 
never  be  able  to  have  with  her,  because  she  was 
afraid  of  all  the  microbes  that  hang  about  those  old 
things.  But  nevertheless  she  loved  them  all  and 
she  was  glad  that  they  lived  at  the  Hague  and  that 
she  saw  them  regularly.  She  was  like  that  and  no 
otherwise. 

And  she  now  came  every  day  to  Bertha's,  waiting 
for  Otto  and  his  children,  until  Constance  grew  jeal- 
ous and  reproached  her,  saying  that  she  never  came 
to  her  new  house  near  the  Woods. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  Van  Naghels  gave  an  evening-party  at  the 
Oude  Doelen  Hotel,  two  days  subsequent  to  the 
signing  of  the  marriage-contract  between  Emilie  and 
Van  Raven:  a  dinner,  for  relations  and  intimate 
friends,  of  nearly  a  hundred  covers.  After  that, 
the  young  people  were  to  do  some  theatricals;  and, 
after  that,  there  was  a  dance.  Dinner  was  over; 
and  Adolphine  asked  Uncle  Ruyvenaer: 

"  Were  you  at  their  dinner-party  two  nights 
ago?" 

"  What  dinner-party?  " 

'  The  day  before  yesterday,  after  the  contract. 
They  gave  a  dinner  at  their  house.  About  sixty  peo- 
ple. Only  their  smart  friends  and  their  Court  set. 
We  were  not  asked.  Mamma  went.  But  none  of 
the  brothers  and  sisters." 

"  I  did  not  even  know  there  was  a  dinner.  We 
called  in  the  afternoon  to  congratulate  the  bride  and 
bridegroom." 

'  Well,  that  evening  they  gave  their  grand  affair. 
To-night  is  only  a  small  party  for  us  and  the  rag- 
tag of  their  acquaintance.  The  other  night,  Bertha 
wore  a  low-necked  dress  and  a  train.  To-night,  she 
has  a  high  frock." 

Uncle  laughed: 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  "  these  parties  at  hotels  are  al- 
ways scratch  affair-s.  The  dinner  was  only  so-so." 

'43 


i44  SMALL   SOULS 

"  Regular  hotel-food." 

"  H'm.  The  champagne  was  good,"  said  Uncle, 
who  had  drunk  his  fill. 

"  How  badly  Van  Naghel  spoke !  Does  he  speak 
as  badly  as  that  when  he  introduces  his  Indian 
budget?  And  what  a  figure  Van  Raven's  mother 
cuts !  She  looks  like  I  don't  know  what !  " 

"  Still,  they're  smart  people." 

"  Yes,  of  course  they're  smart,  or  Bertha  would 
never  have  seized  upon  him  for  her  daughter !  He's 
a  fast  creature,  that  future  nephew  of  mine.  And 
how  Emilie  hangs  on  to  him!  If  Floortje  hung  on 
sto  Dijkerhof  like  that,  I  should  give  her  a  good  talk- 
ing-to  when  we  got  home.  Emilie  behaves  just  like 
a  street-girl." 

Uncle  was  in  a  good  humour,  because  he  had 
plenty  to  drink;  he  was  puffing  a  bit  and  would  have 
liked  to  undo  a  button  of  his  waistcoat:  that  dress- 
waistcoat  of  his  was  getting  rather  tight  for  him. 

"  How  pretty  Floortje  is  looking,  Adolphine. 
That  white  suits  her." 

She  laughed  happily;  she  felt  flattered: 

"  Yes,  doesn't  it?     It  makes  Emilie  look  so  pale." 

Mamma  van  Lowe  passed  on  Otto  van  Naghel's 
arm: 

"  Is  Frances  better,  my  boy?  " 

"  Yes,  Granny,  she's  pretty  well  to-day.  But  she 
gets  tired  so  soon." 

He  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  scowl  above  his  hard 
Van  Lowe  eyes,  his  grandfather's  eyes.  His  two 
years  in  Java  had  made  him  so  bitter  that  it  was 


SMALL   SOULS  145 

painful  for  his  grandmother  and  his  parents  to  listen 
to  him. 

"  What  a  pity,  Otto,  that  you  had  to  leave  In- 
dia!" 

"  Oh,  bah,  Granny,  what  a  country!  It's  all  very 
well  for  you  to  talk:  you  know  India  as  the  wife  of  a 
resident  and  as  the  wife  of  the  governor-general. 
But  for  young  people,  starting  life  .  .  ." 

"  Papa  would  have  helped  you,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"  A  lot  of  help  Papa  could  have  given !  .  .  .  A 
beastly  country;  a  dirty,  wretched  country!  " 

"  But,  Otto,  I  thought  it  delightful." 

"  No  doubt,  in  your  palace  at  Buitenzorg.  That 
goes  without  saying.  But  were  you  ever  clerk  to  the 
magistrates  at  Rankas-Betoeng?  " 

"  No." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  And  that  with  a  wife  who 
topples  over  like  a  ninepin,  twice  a  week,  with  the 
heat,  flat  on  the  floor!  " 

"Otto!" 

"  Oh,  come,  Grandmamma !  It's  the  most  con- 
founded, beastly,  filthy  country  I  ever  was  in.  We 
had  much  better  sell  those  colonies  to  England ;  she'll 
only  take  them  from  us,  one  day,  if  we  don't." 

"  Otto,  really  I'm  not  used  to  this  language !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Granny,  I  know  all  that  official  bom* 
bast  about  India!  But  we  can't  all  be  governor- 
general  or  colonial  minister.  If  I  ever  become  that, 
I  shall  begin  to  worship  India  at  once." 

'  You're  upset  because  Frances  is  ill." 

"  111  ?     Ill  ?     It  takes  a  woman  to  be  ill.     She's 


146  SMALL    SOULS 

not  even  that.     She's  a  reed.     If  you  blow  upon  her, 
she  breaks." 

"  She  was  a  delicate  little  thing  as  a  girl,  Otto." 

"  Well,  but  look  here,  Granny :  I  can't  turn  her 
into  a  robust  little  thing,  can  I  ?  " 

"  For  shame,  Otto!  Don't  be  so  bitter.  You've 
got  two  darling  little  children." 

"Yes,  children;  I  wish  I  hadn't.  I'm  sorry  for 
the  poor  little  devils.  ...  Is  the  show  beginning 
now?  Tableaux-vivants,  arranged  by  dear  old 
Louise.  ...  A  play  without  words  by  Frans  and 
Henri.  .  .  .  Stale  things,  these  wedding-parties,  al- 
ways. I  thought  ours  insufferable." 

"  My  dear  Otto,  you're  in  an  intolerable  humour." 

"  I'm  always  like  that  now,  Granny." 

"  Then  I  strongly  advise  you  to  exercise  a  little 
self-control,  or  you  will  never  have  any  happiness  in 
life,  in  your  own  or  your  wife's  or  your  family's." 

"  The  family  doesn't  affect  my  -happiness." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Otto?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  live  and  move  and  have  my  being 
in  my  family,  Granny !  " 

"  Oh,  really,  my  boy,  you're  too  horrid !  Take 
me  back  to  my  seat.  I  see  your  mother  beckoning 
to  me:  she  wants  me  to  sit  between  her  and  Aunt 
Ruyvenaer.  The  performance  is  beginning.  .  .  ." 

"  Ye-e-es,"  Cateau  was  whining  to  Van  Saetzema, 
Van  der  Welcke  and  Karel.  "  An  evening-party  of 
six-try  peo-ple.  And  the  Rus-sian  Minister  was  there, 
and  the  Mis-tress  of  the  Robes." 

"  Well,  after  all,  if  they  have  so  many  acquaint- 


SMALL    SOULS  147 

ances,"  said  Karel,  under  his  breath,  by  way  of  ex- 
cuse. 

"  Ye-e-es,  but,  Ka-rel,  none  of  the  fam-ily.  Van 
der  Wel-cke,  were  you  invited,  by  chance?  " 

"  No." 

"Oh,  not  you  ei-ther?  Well,  I  should  have 
thought  that  she  would  have  asked  Con-stance.  .  .  ." 

"  Why?  "  asked  Van  der  Welcke,  coldly. 

"  We-ell,  because  she  used  to  go  to  Court,  in  the 
old  days.  And  you  too,  didn't  you,  Van  der  Wel- 
cke?" 

"  Yes,  I  too,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  drily. 

"  Van  der  Welcke,"  said  Karel.  "  Did  you  get 
that  card  of  mine?  " 

"What  card?" 

"  Why,  when  you  were  expected  in  town,  I  called 
and  left  a  card  on  you." 

"  So  did  I,  you  know,  Van  der  Welcke,"  inter- 
rupted Van  Saetzema. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Van  der  Welcke.  "  It  was  very 
civil  of  you  fellows.  Well,  I'll  leave  a  card  on  you 
one  of  these  days." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mention  it  for  that !  "  said  Van  Saet- 
zema. 

"I  didn't  mention  it  on  that  account!"  echoed 
Karel,  swelling  with  geniality.  "  Only  I  should  have 
thought  it  a  bore  if  it  had  been  mislaid." 

1  Ye-es,"  whimpered  Cateau.  "  Because  then  it 
would  have  looked  as  if  we  weren't  friend-ly.  .  .  . 
How  red  the  bride  looks,  Saet-ze-ma !  That  white 
makes  Em-ilie  look  so  very  red." 


i48  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Yellow,  rather,"  said  Van  Saetzema. 

"  Ye-es,"  droned  Cateau.  "  Now  your  Floortje, 
Saet-ze-ma,  looks  so  sweet  in  white.  And  what  a 
nice  fellow  Dij-kerhof  is!  Such  a  thorough  man. 
But  how  pale  Ber-tha  looks  I  " 

"  Green,  rather,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  very  seri- 
ously. . 

Cateau  looked  up,  with  her  owl's  eyes: 

"Green?"  she  repeated,  cautiously.  "Do  you 
re-ally  think  Ber-tha  looks  green,  Van  der  Wel-cke? 
Yes,  she  is  tired,  no  doubt." 

"  To-morrow,"  thought  Van  der  Welcke,  "  all  the 
Hague  will  know  that  I  thought  Bertha  looked 
green.  .  .  ." 

A  tableau  was  discovered  in  the  distance.  The 
idea  was  Paul's  and  he  explained  it  to  Constance : 

"  You  see,  it  represents  Luxury.  The  great  wheel 
crushing  down  upon  Marietje  and  Carolientje  is  In- 
dustry; and  Floortje  is  Luxury,  standing  in  a  dancing 
attitude  on  Industry  and  scattering  gold  and  ropes 
of  pearls  at  twopence  a  rope.  It's  not  quite  clear, 
perhaps,  Luxury  standing  upon  Industry  and  crush- 
ing Marianne  and  Carolientje.  Floortje  is  fidget- 
ing and  giggling.  Oh,  I  must  tell  you,  Adolphine 
was  delighted  when  she  heard  that  Floortje,  her 
Floortje,  was  to  be  Luxury  and  to  crush  Bertha's 
Marianne  1  " 

Constance,  surrounded  by  all  her  family,  was  in 
a  gentle,  happy  mood: 

"  Oh,  Paul,  it's  a  very  nice,  motherly  feeling  on 


SMALL   SOULS  149 

Adolphine's  part,  to  like  to  see  her  child  happy  be- 
fore another.  .  .  ." 

Paul  spluttered  with  laughter: 

"  So  you  think  that  Floortje  is  happy  as  Luxury 
on  the  top  of  Marianne  and  that  Marianne  suffers 
badly  underneath !  Connie,  how  sentimental  you  are 
to-night  and  what  silly  things  you  say!  .  .  .  But 
you're  looking  very  nice.  Come,  let's  go  and  sit 
down  here.  Your  hair  is  turning  grey,  but  I  have 
an  idea  that  you  leave  it  untouched  for  some  coquet- 
tish reason,  because  it  goes  so  well  with  your  young 
features.  It's  a  very  pretty  shade  of  grey.  It's 
not  old  hair.  But  you're  young  still,  you  know. 
And  you're  looking  nice,  very  nice.  .  .  ." 

"  I  believe  you're  making  fun  of  me.  .  .  ." 

"  I  love  good-looking  people;  and  one  sees  so  few 
of  them.  Just  glance  round  the  room :  all  ugly  peo- 
ple; one  walks  crooked,  another  has  a  stoop,  this 
one's  bust  sticks  out  for  miles,  that  one  has  a  fat 
stomach.  I  can't  stand  parts  of  the  body  that  bulge : 
it  makes  me  sick  to  look  at  them.  .  .  .  Yes,  to  be 
accurate,  nearly  everybody's  ugly.  Do  you  know, 
if  you  were  to  take  all  the  heroines  out  of  all  the 
novels  in  the  world,  you'd  just  get  one  heap  of  pretty 
women.  No  novelist  ever  dares  take  an  ugly, 
squinting,  crooked  or  hump-backed  heroine.  If  I 
were  a  rich  man,  I'd  offer  a  prize  for  a  hideous  her- 
oine. .  .  .  Yes,  look  at  Aunt  Lot,"  and  he  imi- 
tated Mrs.  Ruyvenaer's  Indian  accent,  "  glittering 
with  diamonds;  and  her  two  hands  patting  her  brown- 


I5o  SMALL   SOULS 

satin  stomach.  Another  stomach;  and  I  can't  stand 
stomachs.  .  .  .  But  good-natured,  all  the  same,  is 
Auntie !  Look  at  Uncle :  he's  unbuttoned  his  waist- 
coat, the  rude  fellow!  .  .  .  Have  you  noticed  my 
waistcoat,  Connie?  It's  white  drill,  it's  very 
smart.  ...  I  say,  Connie,  look  at  Mamma:  what 
a  grand  old  woman,  the  way  she  walks,  laughs  and 
talks !  Now  that's  something  like :  you  see  at  once 
that  she's  a  great  lady.  Look  at  old  Mrs.  Frie- 
sesteijn  beside  her:  common,  noisy,  spiteful;  a  figure 
like  a  charwoman's.  Hideous,  hideous!  .  .  .  Look 
at  Ernst,  Connie.  Would  you  ever  believe  that 
was  a  brother  of  mine?  Just  like  an  old  Jew;  and 
what  a  dress-coat,  what  a  dress-coat!  Where  on 
earth  did  the  beggar  get  it  cut?  He  spends  all  his 
money  on  jugs  and  vases!  .  .  .  Look  at  Gerrit, 
Connie.  He's  pretending  to  be  gay  again,  the  jolly 
hussar,  with  the  broad  chest  all  over  lace  frogs. 
Poor  fellow,  he's  dying  of  melancholy!  You  don't 
believe  me?  It's  true,  I  assure  you.  .  .  .  Look 
at  Adolphine,  Connie.  Just  like  a  bird  talking  slan- 
der: pip,  pip,  pip!  How  Bertha's  ears  must  tingle! 
Great  Heavens,  those  eyes  of  Bertha's,  always 
blinking!  She  ought  to  have  something  done  to 
them.  .  .  .  Look  at  Dorine,  Connie.  She  always 
looks  repulsive.  ...  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Connie, 
there  are  only  two  good-looking  people  in  the  room : 
Mamma  and  yourself.  .  .  ." 

"  And  you,  Paul.  .  .  ." 

"  Your  husband  has  a  good  figure  too :  he  has  an 
attractive  back.     I  have  an  eye  for  nice  backs.     I 


SMALL    SOULS  151 

don't  like  my  own  back;  and  yet  my  coat  sits  well, 
doesn't  it?  A  dress-coat  is  a  very  tricky  thing. 
Nowadays,  there  is  hardly  a  tailor  who  can  cut  a 
good  dress-coat.  Yes,  my  waistcoat  is  very  smart: 
just  look  at  it.  The  buttons  are  smart,  aren't  they? 
They  are  uncut  sapphires.  Yes,  you  have  a  smart 
little  brother.  .  .  .  Come,  take  my  arm  and  let's 
walk  round  the  room.  Have  you  heard:  they're  all 
furious,  the  Ruyvenaers,  the  Saetzemas,  Karel  and 
Cateau,  because  they  were  not  asked  to  the  first 
party?  The  idea  was  to  give  it  before  the  signing 
of  the  contract,  but  Otto's  arrival  came  and  upset  it. 
He's  another  failure,  that  Otto,  with  his  little  tissue- 
paper  wife.  .  .  .  Look  at  those  Van  Ravens,  Con- 
nie. They're  hanging  on  for  all  they're  worth  to 
Van  Naghel  and  Bertha,  lest  they  should  be  de- 
graded at  being  seen  with  the  Saetzemas.  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  Connie:  are  you  glad  to  be  back?  Are  you 
really  fond  of  all  these  relations?  ...  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  have  that  family-affection  which  you  and 
Mamma  have;  and  Bertha;  and  Dorine.  Bertha 
has  it  in  her  own  house;  Dorine  and  Mamma  go 
scattering  kindnesses  broadcast  over  all  the  children 
and  grandchildren.  ...  I  say,  Connie,  this  is  what 
people  call  enjoying  themselves,  because  two  of  them 
are  going  to  get  married.  But  look  all  round: 
there's  not  a  soul  really  enjoying  himself.  And 
that's  what  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  spend  a  couple 
of  thousand  guilders  on:  giving  them  some  dinner 
and  a  dance  and  letting  them  gaze  at  my  Luxury, 
with  Floortje  dancing  on  top  of  Marianne.  Look 


152  SMALL    SOULS 

at  those  faces.  Not  one  is  naturally  cheerful.  Na- 
ture, nature,  Connie:  there's  no  such  thing  as  na- 
ture among  people  like  ourselves!  We  have  not  a 
gesture,  not  a  word,  not  even  a  thought  that  is  nat- 
ural. It's  all  pose  and  humbug  with  every  one  of 
us;  and  nobody  is  taken  in  by  it.  Really,  it's  a  dis- 
gusting business,  a  society  like  ours,  what  one  calls 
good  society.  Can't  you  understand  an  anarchist 
loving  to  fling  a  bomb  into  the  midst  of  us:  for  in- 
stance, at  Uncle  Ruyvenaer's  stomach?  No  an- 
archist likes  a  stomach:  the  stomach  is  the  trade- 
mark of  the  bourgeois.  .  .  .  Now  they're  going  to 
dance:  look  how  hideously  they're  spinning  round 
the  room.  Just  like  palsied  sparrows.  We  human 
beings  are  much  too  solemn  and  heavy  to  dance  with 
any  grace.  Look,  it's  almost  ghastly.  Through 
all  that  pretence  at  elegance  and  smartness  and 
dancing  and  gaiety,  you  can  see  that  one  has  a  stom- 
ach-ache and  another  a  head-ache,  that  Van  Naghel 
is  thinking  of  how  they  went  for  him  in  the  Chamber 
yesterday  and  Adolphine  wondering  how  she  shall 
make  her  wedding-parties  seem  only  half  as  grand 
as  Bertha's.  .  .  ." 

She  let  him  talk  and  he  never  ended:  he  could  go 
on  prattling  for  ever.  His  mother,  sisters  and  nieces 
often  told  him  to  stop,  moved  away  and  left  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  outpourings;  but  Constance  liked 
'him,  saw,  indeed,  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  he 
said,  in  spite  of  all  his  humbug.  He  saw  through 
the  people  around  him  with  an  insight  which  sur- 
prised her  and  which  she  was  startled  to  find  was 


SMALL    SOULS  153 

not  wholly  inaccurate.  It  was  certainly  true  that 
these  people  were  not  simply  natural  and  merry. 
They  had  come  there  from  politeness  to  Bertha  and 
Van  Naghel ;  but,  in  reality,  one  was  tired,  the  other 
envious.  .  .  . 

"  Auntie,"  said  Emilie,  who  was  walking  round 
the  room  on  Van  Raven's  arm,  "  if  Paul  once  gets 
hold  of  you,  he'll  never  let  you  go.  .  .  ." 

She  called  her  youngest  uncle  by  his  Christian 
name.  She  was  really  a  pretty  girl,  though  Paul 
did  not  see  any  good-looking  people  there,  and,  by 
the  side  of  her,  her  future  husband  was  such  a  pale, 
insignificant  person  that  people  wondered  why  she 
had  accepted  him.  She  was  rather  thin,  but  there 
was  something  dainty,  uncommon  and  original  about 
her  in  her  cloudy  white  frock;  she  had  a  pair  of 
charming  eyes  of  a  strangely-twinkling  gold-grey, 
like  an  unknown  jewel;  her  hair  was  reddish,  with  a 
glint  of  gold  in  it;  and  there  were  a  few  tiny  freckles 
on  the  clear-white  complexion  which  often  goes  with 
that  hair.  She  had  a  pretty  laugh,  a  soft  voice,  a 
coaxing  way  of  being  nice  and  saying  pleasant  things; 
and,  above  all,  she  possessed  an  innate  distinction 
and,  as  she  passed,  white  and  gleaming,  she  had 
something,  one  would  almost  have  said,  of  a  very 
beautiful  alabaster  ornament,  or  of  a  snowy  azalea 
in  the  sunlight :  a  luminous  fairness,  dainty  and  trans- 
parently veined  with  palest  blue.  Constance  knew 
that  Emilie  had  a  talent,  something  more  than  the 
usual  girlish  accomplishment,  for  painting,  but  that, 
in  her  busy  life  as  a  young  society-girl,  she  had  never 


154  SMALL    SOULS 

had  the  opportunity  to  develop  it.  And  Constance 
wondered  at  Van  Raven,  pale,  thin,  stuttering,  stam- 
mering, spruce  and  yet  awkward,  with  one  shoulder 
higher  than  the  other  and  his  three  hairs  of  a  mous- 
tache twisted  up  towards  his  eyes.  He  was  at  the 
Foreign  Office  and  he  belonged  to  a  family  whose 
rigid  Dutch  orthodoxy  was  shocked  by  much  in  the 
Van  Lowes,  in  the  Van  Naghels  and  especially  in  the 
Indian  element  of  the  Ruyvenaers:  nevertheless,  in 
view  of  the  general  reputation  for  wealth  enjoyed 
by  the  colonial  secretary,  they  had  considered  his 
daughter  a  suitable  match  for  their  son.  Van 
Naghel  and  Bertha  were  making  her  a  handsome  al- 
lowance. 

When  Emilie  and  Van  Raven  passed  on,  exchang- 
ing civilities  with  the  guests,  Constance  expressed  her 
surprise  to  Paul: 

"  Can  she  really  be  fond  of  him?  " 

"  She?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Then  why  is  she  mar- 
rying him,  you  ask?  That's  just  the  mystery.  Van 
Naghel  and  Bertha  are  not  husband-hunters,  like 
Adolphine.  Louise  has  had  three  proposals  and  re- 
fused them  all.  And  why  Emilietje — that  delicate, 
white  little  thing,  who  really  has  something  nice 
about  her:  something  artistic,  something  dainty, 
something  exquisite  and,  I  should  say,  almost  some- 
thing natural — why  she  accepted  that  weedy  ass, 
who  puts  on  German  ways  on  the  strength  of  a  fort- 
night in  Berlin,  with  his  moustache  twisted  a  la 
Kaiser  and  his  stiff  military  bows,  I  really  cannot 
tell  you.  Bertha,  who  was  very  glad  when  Otto 


SMALL    SOULS  155 

got  married,  cried  when  Emilietje  accepted  this  chap. 
The  fellow's  as  stupid  as  my  foot.  .  .  .  Those  are 
neat  socks  of  mine,  aren't  they?  .  .  .  Yes,  Con- 
nie, why  do  some  people  get  married?  Adolphine 
and  Saetzema:  why?  I  ask  you,  in  Heaven's  name, 
why?  Otto  and  Frances:  why?  " 

She  felt  that  he  had  it  on  his  lips  to  say: 
"  And  you  and  Van  der  Welcke :  why?  " 
But  he  did  not;  and  he  ran  on: 
"  Marriage  is  a  terrible  thing,  I  think.     To  pick 
out  one  among  hundreds  and  say,  '  I'll  marry  you, 
I'll  live  with  you,  I'll  sleep  with  you,  I'll  eat  with 
you,  I'll  have  children  by  you,  I'll  grow  old  with 
you,  I'll  die  with  you :  are  you  willing?  '     Great  God, 
Connie,  how  is  it  possible  that  people  ever  get  mar- 
ried?    It's  a  toss-up  always:  I  shudder  when  I  think 
of  it!" 

"  Paul,  tell  me:  who  are  all  these  people?  " 
She  knew  hardly  one  of  the  acquaintances:  some 
sixty  people  lost  among  the  forty  members  of  the 
family.  This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  "  gone 
out"  again  at  the  Hague;  and,  although  many  of 
the  guests  had  asked  to  be  introduced  to  her,  she 
had  not  talked  much,  had  forgotten  the  names  at 
once.  Paul,  greatly  in  his  element,  explained  to  her 
where  the  people  had  come  from,  to  what  set  they 
belonged:  people  who  did  not  know  or  never  saw 
one  another,  or  else  did  not  bow  although  they  knew 
one  another,  brought  together  at  this  wedding-party 
because  one  family  l^new  the  Van  Naghels  and  the 
other  the  Van  Ravens.  It  was  doubtless  because  of 


156  SMALL    SOULS 

these  foreign  elements  that  the  party  was  so  stiff, 
that  the  conversation  was  constantly  flagging,  that 
the  people  who  did  not  dance  wandered  aimlessly 
around,  watching  the  dancers  with  a  look  of  resigned 
martyrdom.  Emilietje  moved  about  among  them, 
white,  diaphanous  and  very  charming:  with  Van 
Raven  at  her  heels,  she  exchanged  a  word  with  every 
one.  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  also  were  quietly  busy 
as  host  and  hostess,  as  society-people  who  are  used 
to  that  sort  of  thing  and  who  go  through  it  mechan- 
ically, really  thinking  of  what  they  will  have  to  do 
next  day.  The  members  of  the  family  kept  on  pop- 
ping up  among  the  mere  acquaintances.  And,  in 
the  midst  of  them  all,  the  most  fidgety  was  Dorine : 
she  was  very  fussy,  as  usual,  worked  herself  into  a 
fever  collecting  things  for  the  cotillion,  did  not  dance, 
but  just  trotted  about :  Paul  christened  her  the  camel. 
It  was  strange,  perhaps,  but  Constance  felt  ha.ppy 
and  contented  at  Paul's  side.  She  had  seen  nothing 
of  the  sort  for  years;  and  she  felt  a  certain  peace  and 
satisfaction  at  being  in  the  midst  of  her  own  rela- 
tions. Tears  were  constantly  coming  to  her  eyes: 
she  did  not  know  why.  At  the  first  Sunday-evenings 
at  Mamma's,  she  had  not  felt  this  family-affection 
so  intensely,  perhaps  because  she  was  still  too  timid. 
Oh,  how  had  she  ever  managed  to  live  through  those 
fourteen  lonely  years  at  Brussels !  For  years  she 
had  felt  the  delight  of  love,  sympathy  and  friendship 
only  for  her  child;  and  now  she  felt  it  for  all  of  them. 
Through  her  there  passed  once  more  that  feeling 
which  was  so  strong  in  Mamma :  an  inward  glow 


SMALL    SOULS  157 

which  she  had  not  known  for  years,  a  good,  comfort- 
able feeling  that  she  could  now  grow  old,  that  hence- 
forth she  could  devote  herself  to  her  child,  in  the 
familiar  atmosphere  of  home  and  domesticity.  And 
she  did  not  notice,  did  not  suspect  that  the  family 
and  the  acquaintances  were  stealthily  examining  her, 
judging  her  and  condemning  her. 

"  She's  a  fast  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Raven, 
Emilie's  future  mother-in-law,  to  Mrs.  Friesesteijn. 
"  It's  a  great  trial  for  the  Van  Naghels  to  have  this 
sister  turning  up  from  Brussels." 

"  After  fourteen  years,"  said  the  old  lady,  sharply, 
eager  for  news,  for  scandal,  "  after  fourteen  years, 
to  give  occasion  for  rooting  up  all  those  old  mem- 
ories! " 

And  Mrs.  Friesesteijn  was  delighted  that  Con- 
stance had  done  so. 

11  She  killed  her  father." 

"  I  knew  De  Staffelaer.  No  one  ever  had  a  word 
to  say  against  him." 

"  During  all  those  years,  her  husband's  people  re- 
fused to  know  her." 

"  I  hear  that  she  is  intriguing  like  anything  to  go 
down  to  them  now." 

"  The  child  is  not  Van  der  Welcke's." 

"  No,  his  father  was  an  Italian." 

"  She's  really  a  most  improper  person." 

"  Marie's  her  mother,  after  all:  one  can't  blame 
her." 

"  But  the  family  .  .  ." 

"  Ought  to  have  stopped  her  .  .  ." 


158  SMALL    SOULS 

"  From  coming  to  the  Hague." 

"  That's  what  I  think,  mevrouw." 

"  Yes,  so  do  I." 

"  She's  living  on  her  husband's  people." 

"  Well,  the  Van  Lowes  all  got  something  from  the 
father,  you  know." 

"  It  wasn't  much." 

"  No,  not  much." 

"  It's  a  very  unhappy  marriage." 

"  Yes;  and  the  boy  is  shockingly  brought  up." 

"  They  let  him  do  as  he  likes." 

"  Just  think,  mevrouw:  the  boy  took  the  house  for 
them!" 

"You  don't  mean  it!  " 

"Yes,  really!" 

"  What  a  stafe  of  affairs :  it's  all  so  immoral !  " 

"  What  did  she  come  to  the  Hague  for?  " 

"  She  was  bored  in  Brussels.  And  she  wants  to 
thrust  herself  forward  here,  at  Court." 

"  So  I  heard." 

"  Yes,  that's  so.  Old  connections,  you  see :  the 
Van  Naghels  and  so  on.  She  wants  to  go  to  Court." 

"  Oh,  but  the  Van  Naghels  will  take  good  care  that 
she  doesn't." 

"  At  least,  they  will  if  they're  wise." 

"  What  an  example  for  the  girls,  that  aunt  of 
theirs!" 

"  You  know,  De  Staffelaer  found  her  in  Van  der 
Welcke's  arms." 

The  two  old  ladies  whispered : 

"No!" 


SMALL   SOULS  159 

"Yes,  really!  .  .  ." 

"  He's  a  low  fellow,  too." 

"  Yes,  there's  a  woman  in  Brussels." 

"  If  they  had  only  stayed  there !  " 

"  How  very  select  Aunt  Constance  is  to-night," 
said  Floortje  to  Dijkerhof. 

"  She's  been  sitting  with  Paul  the  whole  even- 
ing," he  answered. 

"  Of  course,  no  one  is  good  enough  for  her!  " 

"  No.  When  you've  been  the  wife  of  a  diplo- 
matist .  .  ." 

"  And    afterwards    Baroness    van    der    Welcke. 
»> 

"  What  did  they  come  to  the  Hague  for,  ex- 
actly?" 

"  Mamma  thinks,  because  she  is  afraid  that,  when 
Grandmamma,  who  doesn't  look  far  ahead, 
dies  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"  Well,  that  she  won't  get  her  full  rights." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  I  " 

"  I  tell  you,  she  doesn't  trust  us." 

"  But,  surely  there's  a  will;  and,  in  any  case,  the 
law  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  but  she  doesn't  know  that,  by  Dutch  law, 
all  the  children  share  and  share  alike.  And,  to  make 
sure  of  what  she's  to  get,  she  wants  to  be  on  the 
spot  when  Grandmamma  dies.  They  owe  a  heap  of 
money." 

"  And  does  he  do  nothing  for  a  living?  " 

"  No.     He  used  to  sell  wine  at  Brussels." 


160  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Nice  people,  those  relations  of  yours,  though 
they  are  barons  and  diplomatists !  " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  look  upon  them  as  relations  I 
Mamma  said  so  distinctly." 

"  And  so,"  said  Mr.  Van  Raven  to  Van  Naghel 
and  Van  Saetzema,  "  you  think  they  came  to  live 
here  merely  .  .  ." 

"  Because  they  were  feeling  very  lonely  in  Brus- 
sels." 

"But  the  family  .  .  .?" 

"  Were  against  it.  I  myself  discussed  with 
Mamma  van  Lowe  whether  it  wouldn't  be  better  to 
advise  them  not  to  .  .  ." 

"And?  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  Mamma  is  the  mother,  you  see.  When 
all  is  said,  Constance  is  her  daughter.  We  all  of  us 
gave  way.  And  then  it  is  so  very  long  ago 
that  .  .  ." 

"  I  must  say,"  said  Mr.  Van  Raven,  emphasizing 
his  words,  "  that  it  was  very  generous  of  you 
all." 

"  Yes,  Van  Naghel  took  a  very  generous  view  of 
the  case,"  said  Van  Saetzema,  who  looked  up  greatly 
to  his  brother-in-law — a  minister,  an  excellency — 
flattering  him,  keeping  on  friendly  terms  with  him. 
"  And  we  all  did,  all  of  us,  as  Van  Naghel  thought 
right." 

"  Still,  one  never  knows,"  said  Mr.  Van  Raven, 
thoughtfully.  "  But,  forgive  me :  she  is  your  sister- 
in-law;  and  it  is  very  generous,  most  generous  of 
you.  .  .  ." 


SMALL   SOULS  161 

Two  aunts  of  Adeline's  stopped  the  fair-haired 
little  mother : 

"Adelientje!" 

"Yes,  Auntie?" 

"  That  new  sister  of  yours:  do  you  like  her?  " 

"Is  she  nice?" 

"  Yes,  Auntie,  really  very  nice." 

"  But  she's  been  an  improper  woman." 

"Oh,  Auntie!" 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  my  girl,  we  know  all  about  it;  you 
be  careful." 

"  And  don't  become  hand-in-glove  too  quickly." 

"  You're  so  thoughtless,  Adelientje." 

"  And  Gerrit  is  so  good-natured." 

"  Take  care,  both  of  you !  " 

"  A  woman  like  that  can  do  him  harm  in  his  ca- 
reer." 

"  Oh,  come,  Auntie!  If  the  Van  Naghels  receive 
them!" 

'  Yes,  but  the  Van  Naghels  disapprove  of  them 
strongly." 

"  Still,  she's  their  sister." 

"  Everybody's  talking  about  them.  People 
say  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

'  That  Constance  is  not  .  .  .  well,  that  she's  not 
her  father's  child !  V 

"  But  Auntie,  that's  a  frightful  thing  to  say!  " 

"  Because  the  Van  Lowes  were  always  so  respecta- 
ble, she  can't  .  .  ." 

"  No,  she  can't  be  a  daughter  of  .  .  ." 


162  SMALL   SOULS 

"  Of  old  Van  Lowe's." 

"  I  say,  Auntie,  this  is  scurrilous !  " 

"Adelientje!" 

"  Auntie,  I  won't  listen  to  another  word !  " 

Cousins  of  the  Van  Saetzemas',  talking  with  the 
IJkstras,  relations  of  Gateau's: 

"  Poor  dear  Adolphine !  " 

"She's  furious  I" 

"What  at?" 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things!  First,  because  the  Van 
Naghels  gave  a  party  at  which  the  whole  family  were 
ignored." 

"  Oh,  well,  that  certainly  was  rather  .  .  ." 
'  Then,  because  Adolphine  has  no  room  in  her 
house  to  give  a  party  at  which  she  would  ignore  the 
family  in  her  turn." 

"  And  because  of  the  seat  which  she  was  given  at 
dinner  this  evening." 

"And  because  of  Emilietje's  two  witnesses:  her 
Uncle  Van  Naghel,  the  Queen's  Commissary  in 
Overijssel,  and  Karel  van  Lowe,  whereas  she  says 
that  Van  Saetzema  is  older  than  Karel  and  there- 
fore .  .  ." 

"  And  also  because  of  Emilietje's  frock,  because 
that  flimsy  white  thing  came  from  Brussels  and  cost 
three  hundred  francs." 

"  What  a  heap  Van  Naghel  must  be  spending  on 
the  .wedding!  " 

"  No,  it's  Bertha :  it's  the  Van  Lowes  who  always 
throw  money  about." 


SMALL   SOULS  163 

"Exactly,  that's  what  I  say:  Adolphine  does  the 

same  thing,  just  as  though  she  could  afford  it." 

'  That's  because  all  of  those  Van  Lowes  are  eaten 

up  with  pride  and  conceit." 

'  Yes,  since  the  father  became  governor-general, 

they  have  always  acted  like  megalomaniacs." 
'  The  old  lady  is  a  regular  peacock." 
"  And  Bertha,  with  her  smart  acquaintances !  " 
"  And  then  that  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke :  she's  got  a 

nice  past  to  look  back  upon !     And  she  behaves  as 

though  she  were  the  Queen !  " 

"  They're    quite    an    ordinary    family,    the    Van 

Lowes." 

'Yes,   they're  nobodies:  the  grandfather  was  a 

grocer." 
"No!" 

"  Yes,  I  assure  you !  " 
"  And  that  mad  Ernst,  who's  always  studying  the 

family-papers  to  discover  if  they  are  not  of  noble 

descent!" 

"Oh,  he's  mad,  if  you  like!" 

"  In  fact,  they're  all  a  little  bit  mad." 

"  Yes,  there's  a  strain  of  it  in  all  of  them." 

"A  strain?     Something  more  than  a  strain  /  call 

it!     And  it's  continued  in  the  Van  Naghels." 
"  Adolphine's  the  best  of  the  lot." 
"  She's  a  megalomaniac,  though,  for  all  that." 
"  I  say,  this  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke:  what  has  she 

come  here  for?  " 

"  Well,  she  thinks  the  whole  thing  has  blown  over. 


164  SMALL    SOULS 

It  was  fifteen  years  ago,  you  see.  And  she's  married 
to  Van  der  Welcke." 

"  Not  according  to  Dutch  law." 

"  No,  but  she  can  get  married  again." 

"  Yes,  but  they  are  not,  they  are  not  married  ac- 
cording to  Dutch  law." 

"  Well,  in  that  case,  /  don't  look  upon  them  as 
married  at  all!  " 

"  Not  according  to  Dutch  .  .  ." 

"  No,  but  .  .  ." 

"Yes  .  .  ." 

"No  .  .  ." 

"  Yes  .  .  ." 

The  party  ended  and  the  guests  departed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

NEXT  day,  Emilie  and  Marianne  van  Naghel  were 
hard  at  work  in  their  boudoir.  They  shared  a  sit- 
ting-room between  them;  Louise,  the  eldest  sister, 
had  one  to  herself.  Emilie  was  taking  down  water- 
colours  from  the  wall : 

"  The  room  was  so  bright  and  cheerful !  "  she  said, 
softly,  and  put  the  drawings  together. 

Marianne  suddenly  burst  into  sobs.  The  room 
was  all  topsy-turvy,  because  Emilie  was  collecting  her 
belongings,  and  the  wall-paper  now  showed  in  fresh, 
unfaded  rectangular  patches. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  want  to  marry  that  horrid 
man  for !  "  cried  Marianne,  sobbing.  "  We  were 
so  happy,  the  two  of  us;  we  were  always  together. 
With  you  married,  I  shall  have  no  one;  and  I  hate 
the  idea  of  arranging  my  room  all  over  again." 

Emilie  seemed  to  be  staring  blankly  into  a  blank 
future: 

"Oh,  come,  Marianne:  I  shall  still  be  at  the 
Hague !  " 

"  No,  I've  lost  you !  "  sobbed  Marianne,  passion- 
ately. "  What  did  you  see  in  that  man,  what  did 
you  see  in  him?  "  She  embraced  her  sister  violently 
and  insisted.  "  Tell  me,  tell  me :  what  did  you  see 
in  that  man?  " 

"InEduard?     I  love  him." 

165 


i66  SMALL   SOULS 

"Oh?"  said  Marianne.  "Is  that  all  it  means, 
loving  a  man  ?  Is  that  love  ?  " 

A  maid  entered: 

'"  Freule,  there's  a  box  come  from  Brussels,  with 
your  dresses.  Mevrouw  wants  to  know  if  it  can  be 
brought  up  at  once,  so  as  not  to  make  a  litter  down- 
stairs." 

"  Yes,  they  can  bring  it  up." 

Overwrought,  Marianne  had  sunk  into  a  chair  and 
closed  her  eyes.  She  was  in  a  state  of  nervous  ex- 
citement, while  Emilie,  with  strange  calmness,  was 
collecting  boxes,  portraits,  ornaments. 

"  Emilie,"  said  Marianne,  resignedly,  "  what  a 
mess  your're  making!  " 

"  Never  mind,  I'm  taking  it  all  away." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it:  everything's  going  away, 
everything's  going  away !  " 

"  Marianne,  do  control  yourself." 

Two  maids  came  dragging  along  a  packing-case. 

"  Where  shall  we  put  it,  freule?  " 

"  Leave  it  there,  in  the  passage." 

Bertha  came  upstairs: 

"  Unpack  it  at  once,  Emilie,  or  the  things  will 
crease." 

"  Do  you  think  it's  my  wedding-dress?  " 

"  I  expect  so." 

"  Then  it  can  go  on  the  bed." 

"  No,  it  had  better  be  hung  in  the  wardrobe." 

The  servants  opened  the  packing-case  and  pro- 
duced cardboard  boxes.  A  third  maid  entered: 

"  A  bill  from  Van  der  LaanX  mevrouw." 


SMALL    SOULS  167 

"  Marianne,  here's  my  key-basket;  just  pay  it,  will 
you?  It's  sixty-six  guilders." 

The  two  Leiden  boys  came  upstairs : 

"  Jolly  beastly,  I  call  it,"  said  Frans.  "  You  never 
find  any  one  in  the  drawing-room,  when  you  come 
home.  Either  it's  a  party,  or  else  everything's  up- 
side down." 

"  Bless  my  soul,  girls,"  said  Henri,  "  look  at  the 
state  your  room's  in!  " 

"  I  say,  shall  I  help  you  unpack?  " 

"  Mevrouw,  I  can't  understand  what  the  young 
mevrouw's  baboe  1  says.  .  .  ." 

"  Mauapa?  Alima?" 

"  Njonja  moeda 3  asks  if  njonja  besar 4  would 
mind  coming  upstairs,"  said  the  baboe,  in  Malay. 

"  Yes,  I'll  come  at  once." 

"  What  are  you  all  doing  here?  "  asked  Marietje, 
at  the  door.  "Mamma,  has  Emilie's  dress  come? 
May  I  see?  " 

"  If  you  please,  mevrouw,  the  old  mevrouw  and 
Mrs.  van  der  Welcke  are  downstairs.  .  .  .  Shall  I 
ask  them  to  wait  in  the  drawing-room?  " 

"  Granny!  "  shouted  Frans  over  the  balusters. 

"  Half  a  moment!  "  said  Henri,  rushing  down  the 
stairs.  "  I'll  fetch  Granny  and  Auntie." 

Marianne  began  sobbing  again: 

"My  dear  child,  what's  the  matter  now?"  ex- 
claimed Bertha. 

1Maid,  nurse.  2  What  is  it? 

3  The  young  mistress,  as  who  should  say,  the  young  mem-sahib. 

4  The  great  mistress,  or  great  mem-sahib,  used  of  the  wives  of 
residents  and  other  high  officials. 


168  SMALL    SOULS 

"  I'm  going  mad!  "  cried  Marianne 

Emilie  kissed  her. 

Old  Mrs.  van  Lowe  came  slowly  up  the  stairs,  gal- 
lantly escorted  by  her  grandson,  and  was  met  on  the 
landing  by  her  other  grandson. 

'"Granny,  Emilie's  wedding-dress  has  come  and 
she's  going  to  try  it  on !  "  cried  Marietje,  excitedly. 

"  Am  I  in  the  way?  "  asked  Constance. 

"  No,  of  course  not,  Constance,"  said  Bertha. 
"  Come  in." 

All  the  doors  of  the  boudoir  and  bedroom  were 
open.  Louise  came  in — she  usually  kept  out  of  the 
way  at  busy  times — and,  together  with  Bertha  and 
the  lady's  maid,  shook  out  the  white  dress,  which 
straightway  filled  the  whole  room  with  a  snowy 
whiteness.  .  .  . 

"  What  is  it,  baboe?"  asked  Mrs.  van  Lowe. 

"  Njonja  moeda  asks  if  njonja  besar  would  come 
upstairs,"  repeated  the  baboe.  "  But  perhaps  if  the 
kandjeng  njonja  besar  5  could  come  .  .  ."  she  added, 
piling  on  the  titles  out  of  respect  for  the  old  lady, 
who  had  once  been  the  njonja  besar  Bogor.6 

"  Then  I'll  go  up,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Con- 
stance,  will  you  come  too?  .  .  ." 

Very  slowly,  a  little  tired  after  the  stairs,  the  old 
lady  climbed  up,  with  her  hand  on  the  baluster-rail. 
Constance  followed  her.  On  the  top  floor,  there 
was  a  sudden  draught;  doors  slammed. 

5  The  old  great  mem-sahib. 

6  The   governor-general's  mem-sahib.     Bogor  is  the   native   name 
of    Buitenzorg,    in    Java,    which    contains    the    governor-general's 
palace. 


SMALL   SOULS  169 

"  Baboe.  ...     Is  there  a  window  open?  " 

The  baboe  ran  about  stupidly,  unfamiliar  as  yet 
with  Dutch  doors  and  windows. 

In  a  sitting-room,  they  found  Frances,  Otto's  wife, 
with  the  two  children. 

"  But,  Frances,  you've  got  a  window  open !  " 

"  Oh,  Grandmamma,  I  was  suffocating!  " 

"  Baboe,  shut  the  window  at  once !  Frances,  how 
could  you !  " 

"  I  can't,  kandjeng!  "  sighed  the  baboe,  pressing 
with  the  strength  of  a  gnat  on  the  bars  of  the  solid 
Dutch  window.- 

Constance  helped  her,  pushed  down  the  window. 

"  This  is  Aunt  Constance,  who  has  come  to  make 
your  acquaintance,  Frances.  But  Frances,  you're 
still  in  your  sarong  and  kabaaif  "  7 

"  Isn't  that  allowed,  Granny?  How  d'ye  do, 
Aunt?" 

"  Child,  how  Indian  you've  become  in  these  few 
years !  "  cried  the  old  lady,  angrier  than  Constance 
remembered  ever  seeing  her.  "  How  is  it  possible, 
how  is  it  possible!  Have  you  forgotten  Holland? 
In  March,  with  the  window  open,  in  a  tearing 
draught,  with  both  the  children,  you  in  sarong  and 
kabaai  and  Huig  in  a  little  shirt!  Do  you  want  to 
kill  yourself  and  the  children?  Baboe,  put  a  baadje 
on  sin  jo!8  Frances,  Frances,  I  spent  years  and 
years  in  India,  but  even  in  India  I  was  nearly  always 

7  The  native   skirt,  or  garment  wound  tightly  round  the   loins, 
and  sleeved  jacket,   forming  a  costume  which  is  worn  pretty  gen- 
erally as  an  indoor  dress  by  European  ladies  in  Java. 

8  The  young  gentleman. 


i7o  SMALL    SOULS 

dressed;  and,  when  I  came  back  to  Holland,  I  had  not 
forgotten  Holland  in  the  way  in  which  you,  a  purely 
Dutch  girl,  have  forgotten  it  in  these  few  years  1  " 

The  old  woman  had  taken  the  child  on  her  own  lap 
and  was  dressing  it  more  warmly. 

"  Grandmamma,  how  you're  grumbling.  .  .  . 
It'd  be  better  if  you  told  cook  to  make  Ottelientje's 
boeboer9  properly:  the  child  can't  eat  that  starch 
they  give  her.  And  she  told  baboe  that  she  had  no 
time  to  cook  it  differently.  The  whole  house  has 
gone  mad  because  Emilie  is  getting  married.  We 
really  can't  stay  here,  on  the  top  floor  at  Papa  and 
Mamma's." 

"  Frances,  dress  yourself  first,  or  I  shall  get  really; 
angry." 

"Allah,  Grandmamma!  "  cried  Frances,  irritably; 
but,  when  Constance  gave  her  the  same  advice,  she 
flung  a  wrapper  over  her  sarong  and  kabaai  and  re- 
mained like  that,  with  her  bare  feet  in  slippers. 

"  No  wonder  you're  always  ill !  "  grumbled  Grand- 
mamma, still  busying  herself  with  the  child. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Constance,  I  wonder  if  you  would  run 
down  to  the  kitchen  and  tell  cook  that  Ottelientje 
can't  have  her  boeboer  made  like  that?  " 

"  My  dear  Frances,"  laughed  Constance,  "  the 
cook  has  never  seen  me,  nor  I  her:  and,  if  I  went  to 
her  kitchen  and  talked  about  the  boeboer,  she  would 
only  turn  me  out." 

"What  a  country  to  live  in,  Holland!"  cried 
Frances.  "  My  child  is  starving  for  food!  " 

9  Broth,  pap. 


SMALL   SOULS  171 

"  I'll  go  down  to  Mamma,  if  you  like.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  do,  would  you?  " 

Constance  went  downstairs.  In  the  boudoir, 
Emilie,  in  her  wedding-dress,  was  standing  in  front 
of  a  long  glass.  The  heavy  white  satin  crushed  her, 
looked  hard  and  cruel  upon  her,  now  that  her  hair 
was  not  done  and  she  tired  and  pale. 

"  The  bodice  doesn't  fit.  It  will  simply  have  to 
go  back  to  Brussels,"  said  Bertha. 

"It's  sickening!"  said  Emilie;  and  the  word 
sounded  almost  like  a  curse  between  her  lips. 

"  Marianne,  will  you  write  the  letter?  I'll  pin 
the  dress  up.  Or  no,  I  had  better  write  myself. 
Constance,  do  look!  " 

"  There's  a  crease  here,"  said  Constance,  "  but 
it's  not  very  bad.  Daren't  you  have  it  altered 
here?" 

u  Upon  my  word,  I'm  paying  .  .  ."  Bertha  be- 
gan, but  she  checked  herself  and  did  not  say  how 
much.  "  And  to  have  it  fit  badly  into  the  bargain !  " 

"  Bertha,  Frances  asked  me  to  come  and  see  you." 

"What  about?" 

"  There's  some  trouble  about  Ottelientje's  boe- 
boer." 

"  I'll  go  up,"  said  Bertha,  worn-out  though  she 
tvas. 

The  maid,  holding  up  Emilie's  train,  followed  her 
into  the  bedroom ;  Marianne  and  Constance  remained 
behind  alone.  Constance  saw  that  Marianne  was 
crying. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 


172  SMALL    SOULS 

"Oh,  Auntie!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Is  life  worth  all  this  bother  and  fuss?  Getting 
married,  moving  your  things,  dancing,  giving  din- 
ners and  parties,  ordering  dresses  that  don't  fit  and 
cost  hundreds,  being  ill,  having  babies,  eating  boe- 
boer:  Auntie,  is  it  really  all  worth  while?  " 

"  Why,  Marianne,  I  might  be  listening  to  Paul!  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  so  eloquent  as  Paul !  But  I'm 
suffocating  with  it  all,  I'm  stifling  and  I'm  terribly, 
terribly,  terribly  unhappy!  " 

"Marianne!" 

The  young  girl  suddenly  burst  into  nervous  sobs 
and  threw  herself  into  Constance'  arms.  Around 
her,  the  room  was  one  scene  of  confusion ;  the  doors 
were  all  open. 

"  Marianne,  let  me  shut  the  doors." 

"  No,  Auntie,  don't  mind  about  that,  but  stay 
with  me,  do !  It's  more  than  I  can  stand,  more  than 
I  can  stand!  I'm  so  tired  of  this  rush,  of  this  un- 
necessary excitement,  of  the  party  yesterday,  of  those 
tableaux-vivants,  of  Floortje's  jealousy,  of  Aunt 
Adolphine's  spitefulness,  I  am  tired,  tired,  tired  of 
everything.  I  can't  stand  it,  Auntie.  I'm  so  fond 
of  Emilie,  we've  always  been  together,  it  was  so  nice, 
so  jolly;  and  now,  all  at  once,  she's  getting  married 
to  that  hateful  man;  and  she's  taking  away  her 
sketches;  and  it's  all  over;  and  now  everything's 
gone,  everything's  gone!  And  Henri  too  is  so  up- 
set about  it :  he  dotes  on  Emilie,  just  as  I  do,  and  he 
can't  understand  either  what  she's  doing  it  for. 


SMALL   SOULS  173 

She's  very  happy  here;  Papa  and  Mamma  and  all 
the  rest  are  fond  of  her;  we  had  such  a  nice  life, 
even  if  it  was  a  bit  overdone  and  I  don't  care  for 
that  everlasting  going  out;  but  now  it's  all  over, 
all  over!  I  sat  crying  with  Henri  yesterday;  and 
at  the  party  we  had  to  be  gay;  and  every  one  thought 
that  he  was  gay,  the  gay  undergraduate;  and  the 
poor  boy  was  miserable;  and  yesterday  I  had  to 
appear  in  that  tableau;  and  Floortje  was  so  horrid 
and  spiteful;  and  Henri  and  Frans  had  a  dialogue 
to  do;  and  the  poor  boy  couldn't  speak  his  words; 
and  I  ask  you,  Auntie,  why  all  this  unhappiness, 
when  we  were  so  happy  together?  " 

She  clenched  her  fists  and,  through  her  sobs,  sud- 
denly began  to  laugh  aloud : 

"Oh,  Auntie!  ...  Ha,  ha!  ...  Oh,  Aun- 
tie! .  .  .  Don't  mind  what  I  say!  I  am  mad,  I 
am  mad,  but  it's  they  who  are  driving  me  mad: 
Mamma,  the  boys,  the  servants,  the  baboe,  Frances 
and-  the  children !  It's  one  great  merry-go-round ! 
Ha,  ha !  ...  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  everlast- 
ing rush  as  we  have  in  this  house?  " 

She  was  now  sobbing  and  laughing  together;  and 
suddenly  she  remembered  that  she  had  let  herself 
go  too  much  with  a  strange  aunt  and  that  Mamma 
did  not  like  these  spontaneous  confidences  to  stran- 
gers; and,  because  she  wanted  to  recover  her- 
self, she  suddenly  became  rather  dignified  and 
asked : 

"  Did  you  enjoy  yourself  fairly  yesterday,  Aunt 
Constance?  " 


i74  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Yes,  Marianne,  I  thought  it  very  nice  to  be  back 
among  you  all." 

"  Don't  you  like  Brussels  better  than  the  Hague?  " 

"  It  was  so  quiet  for  us,  lately,  in  Brussels." 

"  Rome,  I  should  like  to  see  Rome." 

"  Yes,  Rome  is  beautiful." 

They  were  now  silent  and  they  both  felt  that  things 
of  the  past  parted  them,  the  new,  strange  aunt,  who 
had  come  back  from  the  past,  and  the  young  girl, 
who  was  suddenly  afraid  of  it. 

And,  without  understanding  why,  Marianne 
sighed,  in  the  midst  of  this  shrinking  fear: 

"  Oh,  for  a  joy,  a  real  joy  that  would  fill  me 
entirely!  No  more  dinners  and  dresses  and  excite- 
ment about  nothing,  but  a  real  joy,  a  great  joy !  " 

She  felt  so  strange,  so  giddy,  but  she  still  found 
strength  to  say : 

"  It's  a  pity  that  you  were  away  from  us  so  long. 
We  should  always  have  liked  you  and  Uncle  very 
much,  but  now  you  are  both  so  strange  still,  to  all 
of  us." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Constance,  very  wearily. 

And  she  did  not  understand  why  she  suddenly  felt 
very  sad,  as  though,  after  all,  for  manifold  reasons, 
she  had  not  done  well  to  come  back,  though  there 
had  been  that  hunger  for  her  own  people,  her  own 
kith  and  kin.  .  .  . 

"A  joy,  a  great  joy!"  Marianne  again  sighed, 
softly. 

And  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  breast,  as 
though  distressed  by  her  strange  longing.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  furniture  arrived  from  Brussels;  and  Constance 
found  it  delightful  to  arrange  her  house  near  the 
Woods.  She  had  never  expected  to  be  so  happy, 
just  because  she  was  back  in  her  own  country  and 
among  her  family-circle.  It  was  April,  but  it  was 
still  winter:  a  chill,  damp  winter,  which  seemed 
never  to  have  done  raining;  above  the  Woods  and 
the  Kerkhoflaan,  the  heavy  clouds  were  for  ever 
gathering,  sailing  up  as  though  from  a  mysterious 
cloud-realm,  spreading  the  sorrowful  tints  of  the 
lowland  skies  over  the  atmosphere,  hanging  ever- 
lastingly like  a  beautiful,  leaden-hued  melancholy  of 
lilac  grey,  sometimes  with  the  coppery  glow  of  a 
light  that  always  gleamed  very  faintly  and  never 
conquered,  but  just  shone  like  copper  in  between 
the  grey;  and  the  endless  rain  clattered  down,  the 
endless  wind  howled  through  the  bare  trees,  the 
endless  clouds  pushed  and  drove  along,  borne  on  the 
stormy  squalls,  as  though  there  were  an  endless  com- 
bat overhead,  a  cloud-life  of  which  men  below  knew 
nothing.  It  was  a  melancholy  of  day  after  day; 
and  yet,  strangely  enough,  it  stirred  Constance  grate- 
fully: she  smiled  at  the  clouds,  the  clouds  of  lilac 
streaked  with  glowing  copper  as  though  a  distant 
conflagration  were  shining  through  a  watery  mist; 
and  very  soon  her  house  grew  dear  to  her  and  she 
was  glad  that  she  lived  in  it.  Addle  was  not  going 

«7S 


i76  SMALL    SOULS 

to  school  yet,  but  was  working  hard  to  pass  his 
examination  in  July  for  the  second  class  in  the  gram- 
mar-school. He  was  having  a  few  private  lessons 
and,  for  the  rest,  studied  zealously  in  his  room, 
which,  built  out,  with  a  bow-window  and  a  little 
leaden,  peaked  roof,  he  grandiloquently  called  his 
turret-room.  He  had  helped  Constance  to  get  set- 
tled: he  had  helped  Van  der  Welcke  with  his  room; 
and  now  he  worked  and  slept  between  the  rooms 
of  his  parents  and  separated  them  and,  whenever 
it  became  necessary,  united  them.  .  .  .  Strange, 
this  family-life  in  the  little  house,  where  the  parents, 
through  grudges  and  grievances  heaped  up  for  years, 
could  hardly  exchange  the  least  word,  could  hardly 
even  be  silent,  without  a  tension  in  both  their  faces 
and  in  both  their  souls;  where  every  detail  of  do- 
mestic life — a  piece  of  furniture  displaced,  a  door 
opened  or  shut — at  once  led  to  a  discord  which 
turned  the  tension  into  an  offence.  The  very  least 
thing  provoked  a  bitter  word;  a  reproach  flashed  out 
on  the  instant;  resentment  was  constantly  boiling 
over.  And  amid  it  all  was  the  boy,  adored  by  both 
with  a  mutual  jealousy  that  made  their  adoration 
almost  morbid,  each  hoping  simultaneously  that  the 
boy  would  now  speak  to  him  or  her  and  award  his 
caress  to  her  or  him;  and,  if  this  hope  were  disap- 
pointed, at  once  an  averted  glance,  uncontrolled  envy, 
a  nervous  discomfort  that  was  almost  a  physical  ill- 
ness. .  .  .  And,  by  a  miracle  that  had  become  a 
forbearing  and  compassionate  grace,  the  boy,  who 
was  still  the  child  of  their  love,  was  only  a  little  older, 


SMALL    SOULS  177 

for  all  this  everlasting  discord,  than  his  actual  years ; 
had  only  grown  a  little  more  serious,  feeling  himself, 
at  a  very  early  age,  to  be  the  mediator;  and,  now 
that  he  was  a  couple  of  years  older,  now  that  he 
was  thirteen,  accepted  this  mediation,  almost  un~ 
consciously,  as  an  appointed  task  and  a  bounden  duty, , 
with  only  very  deep  in  his  childish  heart  the  ache  of 
it  all,  that  things  were  so,  because  he  loved  both  his 
parents.  At  table,  at  both  meals,  the  child  talked 
and  the  two  parents  smiled,  though  they  avoided 
each  other's  glances,  though,  to  each  other,  their 
words  were  cruel  and  pitilessly  cold.  After  lunch, 
it  was  always: 

"  Addle,  what  are  you  doing  this  afternoon?  " 

"  I  have  to  work,  Mamma." 

"  Aren't  you  going  out  with  me?  " 

"  Well,  then,  at  three  o'clock,  Mamma." 

After  dinner  it  was : 

"  Addle,  my  boy,  what  are  you  doing  this  even- 
ing?" 

"  I  have  to  work,  Papa." 

"  Aren't  you  coming  for  a  cycle-ride  with  me 
first?" 

"  For  an  hour,  Papa,  that's  all." 

And  it  was  always  as  though  the  parents,  almost 
stupidly,  kept  the  child  from  working,  happy  as  long 
as  he  sat  with  him  or  her,  walked  with  her  or  cycled 
with  him.  It  was  so  many  favours  that  he  granted ; 
and  he  granted  them  not  as  a  spoilt  child,  but  as  a 
man:  he  divided  his  precious  time  systematically  be- 
tween his  work  and  his  father  and  mother,  conscien- 


178  SMALL    SOULS 

tiously  allotting  what  was  due  to  each.  And  Con- 
stance would  have  a  moment  of  faint,  smiling  pride, 
as  though  in  a  victory  gained,  when  the  boy  went 
out  with  her  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Addle,  must  you  always  wear  that  hat?  " 

Then,  to  please  her,  he  did  not  wear  his  Boer 
hat,  but  a  bowler,  so  as  to  look  nice  when  walking 
with  Mamma.  And  she  relaxed,  talked  to  him;  and 
he  laughed  back;  and  she  could  just  take  his  arm 
and  walked  with  evident  pride  on  the  arm  of  her 
little  son.  Paul  always  said  that  she  flirted  with 
him.  .  .  .  Then  Van  der  Welcke,  having  nothing 
to  keep  him  indoors,  went  out,  went  to  the  Witte, 
looked  up  his  old  friends:  young  fellows  of  the  old 
days,  but  now,  for  the  most  part,  portly  gentlemen, 
filling  important  posts;  he  no  longer  felt  at  home 
with  them,  even  when  they  talked  of  the  days  long 
past:  Leiden,  their  youthful  escapades,  their  young 
years.  He  felt,  when  with  these  men  who  filled  im- 
portant posts,  that  his  life  was  spoilt,  thanks  to  an 
irrevocable  fault.  And  disconsolately  he  came 
home,  from  the  Witte  or  from  the  Plaats,  and  was 
a  little  gloomy  at  dinner,  until  Addle  succeeded  in 
cheering  him  up.  Then,  looking  more  brightly  out 
of  his  frank,  young,  blue  eyes,  Van  der  Welcke 
asked: 

"  Addie,  my  boy,  what  are  you  doing  this  even- 
ing?" 

He  asked  it  as  one  asks  a  grown-up  person,  who 
makes  an  appointment  or  has  an  engagement;  and 
the  lad  answered: 


SMALL    SOULS  179 

"  I  have  to  work,  Papa." 

"  Aren't  you  going  for  a  ride  with  me  first?  " 

"  For  an  hour,  Papa,  that's  all." 

Then  Van  der  Welcke's  face  lighted  up ;  and  Con- 
stance reflected  that  she  would  be  alone,  all  alone, 
sitting  drearily  at  home,  while  the  evening  drew  in. 
But  the  bicycles  were  brought  out;  and,  like  two 
schoolfellows,  they  spurted  way:  Van  der  Welcke 
suddenly  brighter-looking,  younger-looking;  both, 
father  and  son,  not  tall,  but  well-built,  sturdy  and 
yet  refined;  their  two  faces,  under  the  same  sort  of 
cap,  resembling  each  other  in  that  slightly  heavy 
cast  of  feature:  the  short  nose,  the  well-cut  mouth, 
the  square  chin,  the  short,  curly  hair  and  the  eyes  of 
a  happy  blue,  looking  steadily  along  those  roads  in 
the  Woods  which  sped  under  their  devouring  pedals; 
and  they  were  like  two  brothers,  they  talked  like  two 
friends;  and,  just  as  Constance  had  done,  that  after- 
noon, Van  der  Welcke  now  let  himself  go  in  the 
evening,  feeling,  oh,  so  young  and  happy  with  his  son- 
companion  !  On  returning  home,  Addie  would  look 
in  for  a  cup  of  tea  with  Mamma  and  afterwards  go  to 
his  turret-room  to  work.  And  then  Van  der  Welcke 
always  had  a  pretext,  just  like  a  schoolboy,  to  go  and 
sit  with  his  son,  instead  of  staying  in  his  little  smok- 
ing-room : 

"  Addie,  my  fire's  gone  out.  Shall  I  be  disturb- 
ing you  if  I  come  and  sit  in  here?  " 

"  No,  Papa." 

Or  else : 

"  Addie,    that   wretched   wind   is   blowing   right 


i8o  SMALL    SOULS 

against  my  window  and  there's  a  frightful  draught 
in  my  room." 

"  Then  come  and  sit  in  here,  Papa." 
The  boy  was  never  taken  in,  but  remained  very 
serious  and  went  on  working.  And  Van  der  Welcke 
settled  himself  quietly  in  the  easy-chair,  the  only 
one  in  the  room,  with  a  book  and  a  cigarette,  and 
smoked  and  looked  at  his  son.  The  boy,  one-ideaed 
and  persevering,  worked  on.  .  .  . 

"  He's  an  industrious  little  beggar,"  thought  Van 
der  Welcke;  and  he  hardly  dared  move  for  fear  of 
disturbing  Addie.  "  He'll  get  through,  this  sum- 
mer, though  he  was  a  bit  behindhand.  .  .  .  One 
couldn't  go  on  as  we  were  doing  at  Brussels,  with  that 
outside  tutor.  It's  just  as  well  the  boy  came  to  Hol- 
land. He'll  get  through,  he'll  get  through.  .  .  . 
Four  years  at  the  grammar-school  and  then  Leiden. 
And  then  he  must  enter  the  service.  It's  lucky  that 
Constance  doesn't  object.  But  will  he  himself  con- 
sent? I  should  like  to  see  my  son  make  his  way  in 
the  career  which  I  ...  Oh,  it  was  a  damned  busi- 
ness, a  damned  business!  .  .  .  However,  without 
Constance  I  should  not  have  had  Addie,  my  boy. 
And  Papa  too  would  like  to  see  him  go  in  for  di- 
plomacy. Papa  was  pleased  with  him  too:  I  could 
see  that.  He  will  have  money  later;  Papa  and 
Mamma  are  still  hale  and  hearty,  but  he  will  have 
money  one  of  these  days.  .  .  .  Just  look  at  the 
boy  working !  And  he  is  so  serious,  poor  little  beg- 
gar, owing  to  this  confounded  life  at  home.  .  .  . 
Still,  he's  fond  of,  us.  ...  Look  at  him  working. 


SMALL   SOULS  181 

I  never  worked  like  that.  He  gets  it  from  his  grand- 
father; that  seriousness  also.  He  makes  straight 
for  his  object.  I  was  always  more  superficial, 
younger  too.  The  poor  kid  doesn't  know  what  it 
means  to  be  young.  He  will  never  be  young,  never 
go  off  his  head.  Perhaps,  though — who  knows? — 
later,  at  Leiden,  perhaps  he  will  be  really  lively, 
really  go  off  his  head.  I  wish  it  him  with  all  my 
heart,  my  boy,  my  little  chap.  ...  I  wonder  what 
he  thinks  of  his  parents?  He  knows  that  his  mother 
married  before  she  married  his  father;  but  what 
does  he  know  besides?  What  does  he  think?  Does 
he  judge  us  yet,  that  boy  of  mine?  Will  he  con- 
demn us  later  on  ?  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy,  never  throw 
up  your  life  for  a  woman!  .  .  .  But  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  honour,  my  father  wished  it.  ...  Oh,  Ad- 
die,  may  it  never  happen  to  you !  But  it  sha'n't 
happen  to  you,  my  boy.  There  is  something  about 
him  which  makes  me  see  that  that  sort  of  thing  can 
never  happen  to  him.  He  will  go  far:  wait  and  see 
if  he  doesn't!  .  .  .  What  does  he  get  from  me 
and  what  from  Constance?  Difficult,  this  question 
of  heredity.  I  always  think  of  it  when  I  look  at 
him  like  this.  He  takes  after  me,  physically.  That 
seriousness  is  his  grandfather's.  Now  what  does  he 
get  from  the  Van  Lowes?  Perhaps  that  tinge  of 
melancholy  he  sometimes  has.  But  he's  a  Van  der 
Welcke,  he's  a  regular  Van  der  Welcke.  .  .  .  He's 
singularly  well-balanced,  that  boy:  what  is  harsh 
and  rugged  in  Papa  is  ever  so  much  softened  in  him. 
Perhaps  that's  from  the  Van  Lowes.  .  .  .  It's 


182  SMALL    SOULS 

enough  for  me  to  sit  and  look  at  him  working.  Con- 
stance doesn't  know  I'm  here.  She  thinks  we  are 
sitting  apart,  each  in  his  own  room.  .  .  .  How  can 
the  boy  stick  it,  working  so  long  on  end?  What 
is  he  working  at?  Greek?  Yes,  Greek:  I  can  see 
the  letters.  I  always  used  to  get  up  a  hundred 
times:  a  fly  was  enough  to  put  me  off;  and  I  never 
really  studied:  I  just  crammed,  prepared  for  my 
examination  in  a  fortnight,  helped  by  Max  Brauws. 
.  .  .  Brauws!  What's  become  of  that  chap,  I 
wonder?  Oh,  one's  old  friends!  ...  I  simply 
could  not  study.  Without  Max  Brauws,  I  should 
never  have  got  there.  .  .  .  Yes,  what's  become  of 
him?  .  .  .  But  this  beggar  studies  so  peacefully, 
so  industriously.  He's  a  dear  boy.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  he 
only  had  more  young  people  about  him,  bright, 
cheerful  youngsters!  If  only  it  doesn't  do  him 
harm  later:  this  gloomy  boyhood  between  parents 
who  are  always  squabbling.  ...  I  restrain  myself 
sometimes,  for  his  sake.  But  it's  no  use,  no  use. 
.  .  .  Heavens,  how  the  fellow's  working!  I  think 
I'll  just  ask  him  something.  Or  no,  perhaps  I'd  bet- 
ter not:  he  always  puckers  up  his  forehead  so  sol- 
emnly, as  though  I  were  the  child,  disturbing  him, 
and  he  the  father.  .  .  .  Well,  I'd  better  have  an- 
other cigarette.  .  .  ." 

And  Van  der  Welcke,  through  the  clouds  of  his 
fourth  cigarette,  watched  his  son's  back.  In  the 
light  of  the  lamp  on  the  table,  the  boy's  curly  young 
head  bent  over  his  books  and  exercises  as  fervently 
as  though  the  Greek  verbs  were  the  world's  salva- 


SMALL    SOULS  183 

tion;  and  Van  der  Welcke,  a  little  irritated  by  all 
this  industry,  all  this  peace,  all  this  quietness  for 
two  hours  on  end,  became  jealous  of  the  Greek  verbs 
and,  rising  at  last,  unable  to  restrain  himself,  said 
suddenly,  with  his  hand  on  Addie's  shoulder  and 
something  parental  in  his  voice,  though  it  was  not 
very  firm : 

"  Don't  work  too  long  at  a  time,  my  boy." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OR  else  Constance  would  say,  after  dinner: 

"  I'm  going  to  Granny's :  will  you  take  me,  Ad- 
die?" 

But  he  was  very  just;  it  was  Papa's  turn: 

"  Mummy,  I  was  out  with  you  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  what  of  that?" 

"  I'm  going  for  a  ride  with  Papa." 

Then  she  turned  pale  with  jealousy: 

"  Oh,  so  you  dole  out  your  favours?  " 

He  gave  her  a  kiss,  but  she  pouted,  said  she  would 
go  alone,  in  the  Scheveningen  tram,  which  would 
take  her  to  Granny's  door.  But  he  drew  her  down 
upon  his  little  knees : 

"  Let's  play  at  sweethearts  first,  then." 

"  No,  let  me  go." 

But  he  held  her  tight  and  kissed  her  v/ith  very 
short,  quick  kisses. 

"  Let  me  go,  Addie,  I  insist." 

But  he  kissed  her  with  a  rain  of  quick  little  kisses, 
which  tickled  her,  till  she  smiled. 

"  Look  pleasant  now !  " 

"No,  I  won't!" 

"  Come,  look  pleasant!  " 

"  No,  I  won't  look  pleasant!  " 

But  she  was  laughing,  saw  that  her  jealousy  was 
really  too  silly.  .  .  . 

And  Van  der  Welcke,  after  dinner,  was  glad  that 
184 


SMALL   SOULS  185 

it  was  his  turn.  He  had  come  back  very  gloomy 
from  the  Plaats;  and  Addie  had  cheered  him  up 
during  dinner.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  even,  Addie  went 
quite  mad.  Then  he  wanted  to  romp  with  his 
father;  and  Van  der  Welcke  did  not  object,  until 
Addie  discovered  a  little  spot  between  Papa's  brace- 
buttons  where  he  was  very  sensitive  and  tickled  him, 
furiously,  just  on  that  little  spot. 

"Addie,  that's  enough!"  Van  der  Welcke 
shouted,  playing  the  father,  trying  to  inspire  re- 
spect. 

But  Addie,  quite  mad,  caught  Papa  round  the 
waist,  tickled  him  on  that  sensitive  spot. 

"Addie,  I'll  give  you  a  thrashing!  " 

And  Van  der  Welcke  squirmed,  nervously,  ran 
madly  round  the  room,  ran  out  of  the  room,  followed 
by  his  tormentor. 

"  Addie,  if  you  don't  leave  off,  you'll  get  such  a 
thrashing  that  you  .  .  . !  " 

But  there  was  no  holding  the  boy;  and  Van  der 
Welcke,  because  of  that  sensitive  spot,  lost  all  his 
self-respect,  cringed,  entreated,  laughed  like  a  mad- 
man when  Addie  so  much  as  pointed  at  it. 

"  Addie,  don't  be  so  silly!  "  cried  Constance  from 
the  drawing-room. 

Then  he  rushed  to  his  mother. 

"Hullo,  are  you  jealous  again?  Do  you  want 
to  play  at  sweethearts?" 

But  his  father  called  to  him,  reproachfully: 

"  Come,  Addie,  let  us  start." 

And  Addie  ran  from  one  to  the  other  like  a  little 


i86  SMALL    SOULS 

dog  and  at  last  landed  on  his  bicycle  with  a  ridiculous 
jump;  and  Constance  stealthily  watched  him  spurt- 
ing past  Van  der  Welcke,  leaning  forward  over  his 
handle-bar,  pedalling  like  mad. 

Then  she  felt  happy,  because  he  was  merry,  like 
a  child.  .  .  . 

Emilie  had  been  married  a  day  or  two,  when  Ad- 
die  said,  at  dinner: 

"  I  went  for  a  walk  with  Henri  van  Naghel  and 
his  friend  Kees  Hijdrecht." 

"  But,  Addie,"  said  Constance,  who  was  very  ir- 
ritable that  day,  "  why  are  you  always  with  those 
boys?  Do  they  really  care  for  going  out  with  you? 
Why  not  go  to  Aunt  Adolphine's  boys  instead? 
They  are  your  own  age." 

"  Well,  I  can  understand  that  Addie  prefers 
Henri,"  Van  der  Welcke  let  fall,  unfortunately. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  immediately  up  in  arms. 

He  wished  to  avoid  a  dispute — he  was  sometimes 
more  reasonable  than  she — and  he  merely  said: 

"  Well,  they're  rather  rough." 

"  It  would  be  a  miracle,"  she  at  once  began  to 
cavil,  "  if  you  ever  saw  anything  good  in  the  Van. 
Saetzemas'  house." 

He  looked  at  her  with  wide  eyes,  his  fine,  young, 
blue  eyes : 

"  But,  Constance  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  you're  always  crabbing  Adolphine,  her  hus- 
band, her  house,  her  children.  .  .  ." 

"  But,  Constance,  I  never  mention  them.  .  .  ." 

"That's  not  true!" 


SMALL   SOULS  187 

"  I  assure  you !  " 

"  That  is  not  true,  I  tell  you !  Only  the  other  day, 
you  said  the  house  was  vulgar;  two  days  ago,  you 
said  Van  Saetzema  looked  like  a  farm-labourer." 

"  But  you  yourself  said,  at  Emilie's  wedding  .  .  ." 

"  It's  not  true:  I  said  nothing.  I  tell  you,  once 
and  for  all,  I  won't  have  you  always  crabbing  one  of 
my  sisters  and  her  household.  This  time,  it  is  the 
boys  who  are  rather  rough.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  perhaps  you  want  to  see  Addle  like  them?  " 

"  I  think  it  ridiculous  for  Addie  to  be  always  going 
about  with  undergraduates.  The  Van  Saetzema 
boys  are  very  nice  and  of  his  own  age." 

"  And  I  think  them  three  unmannerly  young  black- 
guards." 

"  Henri,  I  forbid  you  from  this  time  forward  to 
comment  on  my  family  in  my  presence !  " 

"  Look  here,  you  give  your  orders  to  your  serv- 
ants, not  to  me !  " 

"  I  won't  have  it,  I  tell  you.   .  .  ." 

But  he  flung  down  his  napkin,  rose  from  his  seat, 
left  the  room  suddenly,  in  a  passion.  Addie  sat 
quietly  looking  before  him,  playing  with  his  fork. 

"  Papa  has  very  bad  manners !  To  go  throwing 
down  his  napkin,  slamming  the  door,  like  a  school- 
boy !  "  she  said,  fretfully,  involuntarily,  as  though 
to  annoy  Addie.  But  he  frowned  and  said  nothing; 
and  she  went  on,  "  At  least,  in  my  father's  house  I 
was  never  accustomed  to  such  rudeness !  " 

Suddenly,  he  clenched  his  little  fist  and  banged  it 
on  the  table  till  the  glasses  rang  again: 


i88  SMALL    SOULS 

"  And  now  you  keep  quiet  about  Papa!  " 

He  looked  at  her  severely,  with  his  blue  eyes 
suddenly  grown  hard  and  a  frown  on  his  forehead. 

She  started  and  upset  her  glass.  Then  she  be- 
gan to  weep,  softly. 

He  let  her  be,  for  a  few  minutes.  She  cried, 
sobbed,  bit  her  handkerchief.  Then  he  rose,  walked 
round  the  table,  kissed  her  very  gently. 

"  You  have  ...  a  nice  way  ...  of  talking 
...  to  your  mother !  "  she  said,  between  her  sobs. 

He  made  no  reply. 

"  A  pretty  tone  to  use  to  your  mother !  "  she  went 
on. 

He  took  her  by  the  chin  and  lifted  up  her  face : 

"  For  shame!  To  lose  your  temper  like  that!  " 
he  scolded.  "  And  to  grumble !  And  mope !  And 
squabble !  And  upset  yourself !  And  kick  up  a 
hullabaloo !  Do  you  call  that  a  pleasant  way  of 
dining?  " 

She  buried  her  face  on  his  breast,  in  his  arms. 
He  stroked  her  hair: 

"  Come,  Mummy,  be  sensible,  now.  It's  noth- 
ing." 

"  Yes,  but  Papa  mustn't  crab  Aunt  Adolphine." 

"  And  you  mustn't  crab  Papa.  What  did  Papa 
say,  after  all?  " 

"  That  Aunt  Adolphine's  boys  .  .  ." 

"  Were  rough.  Do  you  think  they're  girls, 
then?" 

"  No." 

"Well,  then.  .  .  .     What  else?" 


SMALL    SOULS  189 

"  I  don't  approve  of  your  going  out  with  boys 
so  much  older  than  yourself." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  me  so,  quietly ;  but  it's  no  rea- 
son to  go  quarrelling  like  that.  I  can't  eat  any  more 
now." 

"  Oh,  Addle,  just  when  I've  ordered  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  Apple-pudding  and  wine-sauce." 

"  Well,  it'll  keep  till  to-morrow." 

"  Do  have  a  little.     You  know  you  like  it." 

"  Yes,  but  I  can't  eat  when  I  see  you  so  cross.  It 
chokes  me,  here." 

And  he  pointed  to  his  throat. 

"  Have  just  a  little  bit,"  she  said,  coaxingly. 

"  If  you're  very  good." 

"  Give  me  a  kiss." 

"  But  mind  you're  very  good." 

They  laughed  together;  he  gently  wiped  away  her 
tears: 

"  You  ought  to  see  yourself  in  the  glass,"  he 
added,  "  with  those  red  eyes  of  yours !  " 

He  sat  down.  She  rang  the  bell.  The  servant 
brought  in  the  pudding,  displayed  no  particular  sur- 
prise at  finding  that  meneer  had  gone. 

"  Is  there  any  cheese,  for  Papa?  "  he  asked. 

The  servant  brought  the  cheese ;  Addle  cut  a  piece 
of  gruyere,  put  it  on  a  plate  with  some  butter  and 
biscuits,  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine. 

"Addle  .  .  ." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  upstairs  with  the  cheese  and  the  wine. 


190  SMALL    SOULS 

Van  der  Welcke  was  sitting  glowering  in  the  smok- 
ing-room. 

"  Here's  your  cheese  and  biscuits,  Father.  You 
don't  like  apple-pudding,  do  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  anything  1  " 

"  Now,  don't  be  disagreeable.  Eat  up  your 
cheese." 

"  I  can't  eat,  when  Mamma  .  .  ." 

"  She's  sorry  already;  she's  all  nerves  to-day.  So 
don't  talk  about  it  any  more." 

"I?     I'm  not  talking!" 

"  No,  but  soeda,1  now,  as  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  says. 
Will  you  eat  your  cheese  now?  Presently,  we'll  go 
for  a  ride." 

He  went  away. 

"  Here  I  sit,  just  like  a  naughty  child,"  thought 
Van  der  Welcke,  "  with  my  little  plate  of  cheese  and 
biscuits.  That  silly  boy !  " 

And  he  ate  up  his  bit  of  cheese  and  laughed.  .  .  . 
Downstairs,  Constance  had  put  a  piece  of  pudding 
on  Addie's  plate.  He  ate  slowly.  She  looked  at 
him  contentedly,  because  he  was  enjoying  it. 

"  If  you  hadn't  fired  up  like  that,"  he  said,  "  I'd 
have  told  y6u  something,  about  Henri." 

"What  about  him?" 

"  That  chap's  going  to  be  ill." 

"Why?" 

"  He's  so  upset  at  Emilie's  marriage  that  it's  made 
him  quite  unwell.  Kees  Hijdrecht  got  angry  and 
said,  '  Are  you  in  love  with  your  sister?  '  And  then 

1  Quiet,  that'll  do. 


SMALL    SOULS  191 

Henri  almost  began  to  cry,  Leiden  man  though  he 
is.  No,  he  wasn't  in  love,  he  said,  but  he  had  al- 
ways been  with  Emilie,  with  Emilie  and  Marianne; 
and  now  she  was  married  and  would  be  a  stranger. 
He  was  so  bad  that  we  took  him  home;  and  then  he 
locked  himself  in  his  room  and  wouldn't  even  see 
Marianne." 

"  But,  Addie,  that's  morbid." 

"  I  dare  say;  but  it's  true." 

"  I  must  go  round  to  Aunt  Bertha's.  Will  you 
take  me?" 

"  No,  let  me  go  cycling  with  Papa.  He's  sitting 
upstairs,  eating  his  cheese  for  all  he's  worth.  You'd 
better  tell  Truitje  to  take  him  up  his  coffee." 

"  But,  Addie,  what  will  the  girl  think  when  she 
sees  Papa  finishing  his  dinner  upstairs?  " 

"  She  can  think  what  she  likes.  It's  your  fault. 
Shall  I  come  and  fetch  you  at  Aunt  Bertha's  at  a 
quarter  to  ten?  " 

She  looked  at  him  radiantly,  delighted,  surprised. 
And  she  kissed  him  passionately: 

"  My  boy,  my  darling!  "  she  cried,  pressing  him 
to  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  the  same  nervous  mood  in  which  she  had  been 
all  day,  Constance  hurried,  after  dinner,  to  the 
Bezuidenhout,  taking  the  tram  along  the  Scheven- 
ingsche  Weg  and  another  to  the  Plein.  When  she 
rang  at  the  Van  Naghels',  she  thought  it  strange  that 
there  was  no  light  in  the  hall,  as  she  knew,  from 
Addie,  that  they  were  at  home  that  evening.  The 
butler,  who  opened  the  door,  said  that  he  did  not 
know  whether  mevrouw  could  see  her,  as  mevrouw 
was  not  feeling  well. 

She  waited  in  the  drawing-room,  where  the  butler 
hurriedly  turned  on  the  light  before  going  to  say 
that  she  was  there.  All  round  the  big  room  were 
the  faded  and  withered  flower-baskets  and  bouquets 
of  Emilie's  wedding,  the  frail  flowers  shrivelled  and 
brown  and  decayed,  while  the  broad  white  ribbons 
still  hung  in  silvery  folds  around  them.  The  room 
had  evidently  not  been  touched  since  the  wedding- 
breakfast:  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  furniture;  and 
the  chairs  still  stood  as  though  the  room  had  just 
been  left  by  a  multitude  of  guests.  .  .  .  Constance 
waited  some  time;  then  she  heard  footsteps.  Mari- 
anne came  in,  looking  pale  and  untidy: 

"  We  are  so  sorry,  Auntie,  to  have  kept  you  wait- 
ing. Mamma  is  very  tired  and  has  an  awful  head- 
ache and  is  lying  down  in  her  room." 

"  Then  I  won't  disturb  her." 
192 


SMALL   SOULS  193 

"  But  Mamma  asked  if  you  would  come  upstairs." 

She  followed  Constance  to  Bertha's  bedroom. 
Constance  was  astonished  at  the  almost  deathly  still- 
ness in  that  great  house,  which,  on  the  three  or  four 
occasions  that  she  had  entered  it,  she  had  never 
seen  other  than  full  of  movement,  life,  all  sorts  of 
little  interests  which  together  made  up  a  bustling 
existence.  There  was  no  draught  on  the  top  floor, 
where  Frances  had  her  apartments;  there  were  no 
doors  slamming;  she  saw  no  maids,  no  baboe,  no 
children:  everything  was  quiet,  deadly  quiet.  And, 
when  she  entered  Bertha's  room,  it  looked  to  her, 
in  the  subdued  light,  like  a  sick-room. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  how  you  are." 

Bertha  put  out  her  hand,  silently.  Then  she  said: 
'  That  is  nice  of  you.  I  am  very  tired  and  I  have 
a  head-ache." 

"  I  shall  not  stay  long." 

"  Yes,  do  stay.     I  don't  mind  you." 

Bertha  and  Constance  were  now  alone.  And  it 
struck  Constance  that  a  disconsolate  sadness  distorted 
Bertha's  features  and  that  she  looked  very  old,  now 
that  her  hair,  with  its  grey  patches,  was  down. 

"  All  this  rush  has  been  too  much  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Bertha,  vaguely. 
'  There's  always  plenty  of  rush  here." 

"  Still,  it's  just  as  well  that  you're  taking  a  rest." 

"Yes." 

They  were  silent  and  there  was  no  sound  save  the 
ticking  of  the  clock.  Then  Constance  stooped  and 
kissed  Bertha  on  the  forehead: 


i94  SMALL    SOULS 

"  I  wanted  badly  to  see  you  this  evening,"  she 
said.  "  Addie  was  out  with  Henri  and  he  told  me 
that  Henri  was  so  depressed.  And  so  I  came 
round." 

"  Henri?  "  said  Bertha,  vaguely.  "  I  don't  think 
so;  he  seemed  all  right." 

"  But  Addie  said  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  That  he  was  so  depressed." 

"Really?     I  didn't  notice  it." 

"  Well,  perhaps  Addie  was  mistaken,"  said  Con- 
stance, gently.  "  Come,  I've  seen  you  now,  Bertha, 
and  perhaps  it's  better  that  I  should  go  and  let  you 
rest." 

And  she  stooped  again  to  kiss  Bertha  good-bye. 
But  Bertha  caught  her  by  the  hand: 

"  Do  stay  with  me!  "  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  of  disturbing  you." 

"  No,  please  stay!  "  said  Bertha.  "  I  think  it's 
nice  of  you  to  have  come.  You  mustn't  think  me 
indifferent;  but  what's  the  use  of  talking?  If  one 
doesn't  talk,  everything  is  so  much  simpler.  Words 
always  mean  so  much.  .  .  .  Don't  think  me  cold, 
Constance.  I'm  like  that,  you  see:  I  never  talk, 
to  anybody.  I  prefer  to  withdraw  into  myself,  when 
there's  anything  the  matter  with  me.  But  there's 
nothing  wrong  now,  I'm  only  a  little  tired.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  feel  rather  sad  at  Emilie's  going.  But 
we  must  hope  that  she  will  be  happy.  Eduard  is 
not  a  bad  fellow;  and  why  should  Emilie  have  ac- 
cepted him,  if  she  didn't  care  for  him?  .  .  .  Do 


SMALL    SOULS  195 

stay  and  talk  to  me.  Tell  me  about  yourself.  It 
is  the  first  time  that  we  have  had  a  real  talk  .  .  ." 

"  For  years." 

"  Yes,  for  years.  And  much  has  happened,  Con- 
stance ;  but  it  all  belongs  to  the  past  now." 

"  Yes,  but  the  past  remains  so  long.  Properly 
speaking,  it  never  goes,  it  is  always  the  past." 

"  Constance,  it  is  twenty  years  since  we  saw  each 
other." 

"  Twenty  years.  Papa  has  been  dead  fourteen 
years.  It  was  my  fault  that  he  died." 

"  No,  Constance." 

"  Yes,  it  was.  You  needn't  mind :  it  was  my  fault. 
I  know  you  all  think  so  and  I  feel  it  myself.  It  was 
my  fault.  I  can  never  forget  that.  I  can  never 
forgive  myself  that." 

"  Hush,  Constance.  Really,  it's  such  a  long  time, 
such  a  very  long  time  ago." 

"  But  it  will  always  remain  ...   a  murder." 

"  You  have  the  future  before  you  now.  There's 
your  son.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  there's  my  son.  But  it  has  come  to  this, 
that  I  am  not  living  for  him,  but  he  for  me." 

"  That  is  wrong." 

"  Yes,  it's  wrong.  And  my  whole  life  is  wrong, 
everything  has  gone  wrong  in  my  life.  Oh,  Bertha, 
I  can't  tell  you  how  I  yearned  for  Holland  and  for 
you  all,  how  I  yearned  to  be  no  longer  alone,  alone 
with  my  boy!  Now,  perhaps  it  will  be  different: 
among  all  of  you,  I  feel  at  home  once  more.  At 
home:  do  you  know  what  that  means?  If  I  had  re- 


196  SMALL    SOULS 

mained  away,  things  would  never  have  come  right. 
Now  perhaps  I  can  still  hope:  I  really  don't 
know.  .  .  ." 

"Alone  with  your  boy?  Why  don't  you  speak 
of  your  husband?  " 

"  No,  not  my  husband." 

"Why  not?" 

"  No,  no.  We  only  endure  each  other,  for  Ad- 
die's  sake." 

"  Constance,  don't  forget  .  .  ." 

"What?  .  .  ." 

"  What  he  did  for  you,  what  his  people  did." 

"  Oh,  if  only  I  had  never  accepted  that  sacrifice ! 
If  only  I  had  gone  right  away,  alone,  somewhere 
far  away!  And  then  never  come  back  to  you  all. 
.  .  .  For,  as  it  is,  it  was  possible,  after  fifteen  years; 
but  then  it  would  have  been  impossible.  .  .  .  To 
be  grateful,  to  be  grateful  all  the  time,  while  all  the 
time  I  am  full  of  bitterness:  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't 
be  grateful  when  I  feel  so  bitter." 

"  But,  Constance,  you're  back  now  and  we  are  all 
glad  to  have  you  back." 

"  Bertha,  I  don't  know  if  you  mean  what  you  say. 
I  do  know  that  I  am  happy  to  be  back,  in  Holland, 
among  you  all.  But  I  also  know  that,  in  twenty 
years,  people  drift  far  apart;  and  perhaps  I,  who 
had  become  a  stranger,  was  not  wise  to  come  back 
to  all  of  you,  to  want  to  be  a  sister  to  you 
again." 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  have  to  get  used  to  one  an- 
other, Constance,  as  sisters;  but  you  always  remained 


SMALL   SOULS  197 

a  daughter  to  Mamma;  and  I  am  very  glad  for 
Mamma's  sake." 

"  Yes,  I  feel  that,  that  you  all  tolerate  me  for 
Mamma's  sake.  It  is  nice  of  you,  but  it  is  not  quite 
what  I  should  have  wished." 

"  But,  Constance,  all  that  will  come  later.  I  am 
convinced  that  soon  you  will  feel  no  longer  a 
stranger.  But  don't  be  impatient;  and  let  us  get 
used  to  one  another  again.  .  .  .  And  there  is  this 
too,  that  every  one  has  his  own  interests  in  life;  and 
it  is  a  pity,  but  there  is  not  always  time  to  feel  for 
another  and  to  think  of  another.  That  is  very 
strange,  but  it's  true.  Just  think,  it  is  two  months 
since  you  came  back  to  Holland;  and  this  is  the  first 
time  that  we  have  had  a  chance  of  talking  to  each 
other.  I  have  only  once  been  to  see  you  at  your 
house.  And  all  this  is  not  from  heartlessness,  but 
because  one  has  no  time." 

"  Yes,  Bertha,  I  know;  and  I  am  not  reproaching 
you;  and  you've  been  very  busy  with  the  wed- 
ding " 

"  And,  when  it's  not  a  wedding,  it's  something 
else.  It  is  always  like  that,  Constance.  And 
sometimes  I  ask  myself,  why:  why  do  we  do  it? 
Why  have  all  this  fuss,  all  this  bustle,  all  this  excite- 
ment? .  .  .  There  is  a  reason  for  it  all:  our  chil- 
dren's happiness  lies  in  that  direction.  We  do 
everything  for  our  children,  that's  what  it  comes  to. 
Van  Naghel's  being  in  the  Cabinet,  my  giving  din- 
ners: the  reason  is  always,  though  one  doesn't  al- 
ways realize  it,  for  the  children,  for  their  happiness. 


198  SMALL    SOULS 

But,  then,  Constance,  then  we  ought  to  have  our 
reward  and  see  our  children  happy.  In  return  for 
all  our  trouble  and  worry,  for  all  this  rushing  about 
and  weariness,  for  all  the  money  we  spend,  we  do 
want  to  see  our  children  just  a  little  happy.  And 
then,  oh,  when  I  " — her  eyes  filled  with  tears — 
"when  I  see  Otto  and  Frances:  Otto  discontented 
and  Frances  ill;  Louise  sad  because  of  Otto,  whom 
she  is  so  fond  of;  Emilie  married  now — but  how  mar- 
ried, poor  thing,  and  why? — and  Marianne  all 
nerves  and  not  knowing  what  she  wants;  and  Henri 
too  so  melancholy :  then  I  say  to  myself,  '  Why 
have  we  all  these  children,  for  whom  we  live  and 
think  and  contrive?  And  wouldn't  it  be  better  not 
to  have  them?  And  isn't  it  better  to  have  as  little 
as  possible  in  one's  life  and  to  make  that  life  as 
small  and  simple  and  quiet  as  possible,  once  we  have 
to  live?  Oh,  Constance,  all  this  aimlessness  and 
uselessness  amid  which  people  like  ourselves,  women 
in  our  position,  our  environment,  our  set,  turn  and 
turn  like  humming-tops  or  fools :  isn't  it  enough  some- 
times to  tempt  one  to  run  away  from  it  all  and  to  go 
and  sit  on  a  mountain  somewhere  and  look  out  over 
the  sea?  Women  like  ourselves  marry  as  young 
girls,  knowing  nothing  and  having  only  a  vague  pre- 
sentiment of  our  lives,  that  they  will  be  like  the  lives 
of  our  mothers  before  us;  and  all  that  futility  seems 
most  important,  until,  one  fine  day,  we  find  that  we 
have  grown  old  and  tired  and  have  lived  for  nothing 
at_alb  for  visits,  dresses,  dinners,  things  which  we 
thought  were  necessary,  all  sorts  of  interests  among 


SMALL    SOULS  199 

which  we  were  born  and  brought  up  and  grew  old 
and  which  we  cannot  escape  and  which  are  worth 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing!  And  then,  when  we 
think  that  we  have  lived  for_o_ur__cJiil4Fen  and  slaved 
and  schemed  and  contrived  for  them,  then  it  all 
comes  to  nothing,  nothing,  nothing;  and  notjyie-ef~ 
them  is^Jiappy.  .  .  .'  You  see,  Constance,  I  have 
talked  to  you  now;  but  what's  the  good  of  it?  Why 
say  all  that  I  have  said?  You'll  go  away  presently 
and  think,  '  What  a  fit  of  depression  Bertha  had !  ' 
And  that  is  all  it  was:  a  fit  of  depression.  For, 
when  I  have  had  a  couple  of  days'  rest,  why,  then 
life  will  go  on  as  before :  I  shall  have  two  charwomen 
in  at  once ;  the  whole  house  has  to  be  done,  after  the 
wedding  and  because  of  the  spring-cleaning.  Well, 
then,  was  it  really  worth  while  to  speak  out?  Oh, 
no,  talking  leads  to  so  little;  and  it's  best  simply  to 
do  all  the  little  duties  that  fall  to  one's  share." 

"  I  am  very  glad  though,  Bertha,  that  you  have 
let  yourself  go.  I  did  not  know  you  thought  like 
that;  I  myself  have  sometimes  thought  so,  even 
though  my  life  was  not  so  busy  as  yours.  But,  in 
Brussels,  I  too  sometimes  thought,  '  Well,  yes,  I  am 
living  for  Addie :  but,  if  he  were  not  here,  he  would 
not  have  his  own  troubles  in  the  future;  and  I  should 
not  need  to  go  on  living! ' 

"  And  perhaps  there  are  hundreds  who  think  like 
that,  in  our  class." 

"  Isn't  it  the  same  in  every  class?  " 

"  Perhaps  life  is  hopeless  for  everybody.  And 
yet,  when  I  am  rested,  to-morrow  or  the  day  after, 


200  SMALL    SOULS 

and  when  my  head-ache  is  gone,  I  shall  start  all  this 
work  over  again." 

They  were  silent,  hand  in  hand;  for  a  moment 
they  had  found  each  other  again,  were  like  two  sis- 
ters. Then  Bertha  went  on: 

u  When  I  lie  here  like  this,  with  my  head-aches, 
I  always  think  of  my  children.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was 
nice  of  you  to  come,  Connie.  Was  Addie  out  with 
Henri,  did  you  say?  Isn't  it  morbid  of  Henri  to 
be  so  melancholy?  But  my  children  are  so  depend- 
ent on  one  another,  almost  more  than  on  their  par- 
ents. Otto  and  Louise  are  always  together;  and 
then  Frances  is  jealous.  The  two  boys  at  Leiden 
are  always  together;  and  Henri  was  always  with  his 
sisters  too;  and  Marianne  misses  Emilie.  And  still, 
notwithstanding  that  feeling  for  one  another,  not- 
withstanding that  we  do  everything  for  them,  not- 
withstanding that  all  our  thoughts  are  for  them, 
notwithstanding  all  we  spend  on  them  and  for  them, 
my  children  are  not  happy.  Not  one  of  them  has 
received — what  shall  I  say? — the  gift  of  happiness. 
It  is  strange;  it  is  as  if  life  lay  heavy  upon  all  of 
them  and  as  if  they  were  too  small,  too  weak  to  bear 
the  burden  of  it.  Tell  me,  Constance,  what  is  your 
boy  like?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  is  like  that." 

"  But  then  he  is  old  for  his  years,  isn't  he?  " 

'  Yes,  but  he  is  very  sensible." 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  little  man." 

"  He  is  strong,  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body.  I  was 
going  to  say  that  he  is  just  as  though  he  were  not 


SMALL    SOULS  201 

little.  He  works  entirely  to  please  himself.  And 
he  is  a  comfort,  to  both  of  us.  He  is  a  strange  child. 
He  is  not  a  child." 

"  And  what  is  he  going  to  be?  " 

"  He  will  probably  go  into  the  diplomatic  serv- 
ice." 

She  spoke  the  words  and  saw,  in  a  flash,  before 
her  eyes,  Rome,  De  Staffelaer,  all  her  vain  past. 
And,  in  that  half-darkened  room,  in  that  hour  of 
absolute  sincerity,  she  asked  herself  whether  that 
career  would  spell  happiness  for  her  son. 

"Will  Van  der  Welcke  like  that?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  but  Addie  must  decide  for  himself.  We 
shall  not  force  him." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door;  and  Henri  put  his 
head  into  the  room: 

"  May  I  come  in,  Mamma?  " 

"  Yes,  what  is  it?     Here's  Aunt  Constance." 

"How  are  you,  Aunt?  I  came  to  see  how  you 
are,  Mamma." 

The  undergraduate  was  a  tall  boy  of  just  twenty, 
with  a  pale,  gentle  face  and  dressed  with  the  ultra- 
smartness  of  a  youth  who  is  "  in  the  swim  "  at  Lei- 
den. 

"  Pretty  well,  my  boy." 

"  I  shall  go  back  to  Leiden  to-morrow,  Mamma." 

"Oh?" 

"  Yes;  and  I  shall  probably  not  be  home  for  some 
time.  I  mean  to  work  hard.  .  .  .." 

"  That's  right." 

"  There's  really  nothing  else  to  do  but  work.     It's 


202  SMALL    SOULS 

so  slow  here,  Auntie,  now  that  Emilie's  gone. 
Otto's  all  right,  with  Louise.  She  missed  him  badly, 
while  he  was  in  India.  Funny  brothers  and  sisters, 
aren't  we?  So  exaggerated.  .  .  .  Well,  Mamma, 
I'll  say  good-bye:  I  shall  start  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning." 

He  said  good-bye  and  went  away  pulling  himself 
together,  putting  a  good  face  on  his  grief.  Bertha 
began  to  weep  softly. 

A  maid  knocked  at  the  door : 

"  Master  van  der  Welcke,  mevrouw." 

"  Addie's  come  to  fetch  me." 

"  Ask  Master  van  der  Welcke  to  come  upstairs," 
said  Bertha. 

The  boy  came  in.  He  remained  near  the  door; 
in  the  half-dark  room,  he  stood  small  but  erect,  like 
a  little  man: 

"  I  have  come  to  fetch  you,  Mamma." 

The  two  sisters  looked  at  him,  smiling.  Bertha 
had  it  on  her  lips  to  say  that  it  was  not  right  for 
Addie  to  go  about  the  streets  alone,  but  she  said 
nothing  when  the  boy  went  up  to  his  mother.  He 
looked  capable  of  protecting  her  and  himself  against 
anything,  though  he  was  only  thirteen:  against  the 
dark  night  and  against  life  that  bore  down  so  heavily 
upon  their  small  souls. 

And  a  melancholy  jealousy  welled  up  in  Bertha, 
while  Constance  was  kissing  her  good-bye: 

"  Don't  be  too  bitter,  Constance,"  she  whispered, 
"  and  cherish,  cherish  that  boy  of  yours.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XX 

CONSTANCE,  after  this  talk  with  Bertha,  for  days 
felt  easier  in  her  mind,  as  though  filled  with  an  in- 
definable contentment  that  bid  fair  to  soothe  and 
heal.  Yes,  she  hoped  that,  gradually,  she  would 
win  them  all  back  like  that,  all  her  near  ones,  whom 
she  had  lost  for  years.  She  saw  Mamma  daily;  and 
in  these  regular  meetings  between  mother  and  child 
there  was  the  sweetness  of  finding  each  other  after 
long  years  of  almost  uninterrupted  separation,  a 
sweetness  touched  with  a  melancholy  that  held  no 
bitterness,  a  mingling  of  glad  tears  and  smiles  over 
the  happiness  of  it  all.  Also,  Constance  had  now 
found  Bertha  again;  and,  though  they  did  not  see 
each  other  until  Mamma's  Sunday-evening,  still  there 
was  more  sisterly  confidence  between  them,  while 
Marianne  grew  to  like  running  in  at  the  Kerkhoflaan 
and  would  stay  to  dinner  or  go  cycling  with  Van  der 
Welcke  and  Addie.  In  this  way,  light  bonds  were 
established.  As  for  Karel  and  Cateau,  Constance 
was  sorry,  for  in  Karel  she  still  remembered  the 
brother  with  whom  she  used  to  play  on  the  boulders 
in  the  river  at  Buitenzorg;  but  she  had  felt  at  once 
that  she  must  not  expect  much  from  Karel,  now  that 
he  and  his  wife  had  become  mutual  images  of  placid 
egotisjEU^vrapped  in  their  well-fed,  middle-class  life, 
in  the  sheltered  comfort  of  their  warm-,  shut  house. 
No,  Karel,  she  felt,  she  had  lost,  though  they  were 

203 


204  SMALL   SOULS 

conventionally  civil  to  each  other.  With  Gerrit  it 
was  pleasanter.  Gerrit  and  Adeline  would  come 
now  and  then  to  take  tea  in  the  evening,  after  the 
children  had  gone  to  bed.  Only  it  was  a  pity  that 
Gerrit  always  insisted  on  crabbing  and  poking  fun 
at  the  Van  Naghels  and  their  friends.  This,  Con- 
stance thought,  was  not  very  tactful  towards  Van 
der  Welcke,  because,  though  he  and  she  did  not  go 
into  society,  it  so  happened  that  Van  der  Welcke 
had  a  good  many  old  friends,  at  the  club,  who  be- 
longed to  the  aristocratic  set.  Gerrit  was  a  boister- 
ous, lively  fellow,  fair-haired,  handsome,  broad- 
shouldered  and  vigorous  in  his  hussar's  uniform;  but 
his  boisterousness  was  sometimes,  she  thought, 
rather  overdone;  and  she  suspected  that  Van  der 
Welcke  did  not  like  Gerrit,  thought  him  a  little  vul- 
gar. And  so  she  was  always  on  the  alert  to  take  up 
the  cudgels  for  Gerrit  against  her  husband;  and  Van 
der  Welcke  said  nothing  about  Gerrit  and  was  even 
amiable  and  talkative  when  Gerrit  and  Adeline  were 
there.  Adeline  was  a  dear  little  woman,  a  fair- 
haired,  little  doll-mother,  with  her  seven  children, 
like  a  family  of  flaxen-haired  dolls:  the  oldest  a  girl 
turned  eight,  the  youngest  a  baby  of  a  year  or  so; 
and  Gerrit  was  always  making  jokes  about  not  leav- 
ing off  yet;  and  indeed  Adeline  was  expecting  another 
in  the  autumn.  So  Constance  got  on  well  with  Ger- 
rit and  Adeline,  but  still  she  felt  out  of  touch  with 
this  brother  too,  even  though  Gerrit  had  such  a 
charming  way  of  bringing  back  the  memory  of  their 
early  days,  when  they  used  to  play  in  the  river  at 


SMALL   SOULS  205 

Buitenzorg.  Yes,  she  was  an  interesting  child  then, 
Gerrit  always  said :  there  was  something  so  nice  about 
her;  she  was  full  of  imagination;  and  it  was  curious 
to  hear  this  great,  heavy  hussar  going  into  ecstasies 
over  that  little  sister  of  the  old  days:  a  frail,  fair- 
haired  little  girl,  in  her  white  baadje;  she  used  to 
walk  on  her  pretty  little  bare  feet  over  the  boulders 
and  invent  all  sorts  of  fables  and  fairy-tales,  which 
her  elder  brothers  were  not  quite  capable  of  under- 
standing and  yet  had  to  play  at,  good-humouredly, 
for  the  two  brothers  were  very  fond  of  their  little 
sister.  Yes,  Gerrit  always  said,  he  had  not  under- 
stood until  afterwards  how  much  poetry  there  was 
in  Constance  in  the  days  when  she  dreamed  those 
stories,  those  fables,  in  which  she  often  played  a 
fairy,  or  a  poetri  out  of  the  Javanese  legends :  at  such 
times,  she  would  wreathe  her  hair  with  a  garland  of 
broad  leaves;  she  would  look  like  Ophelia,  in  the 
water,  decked  with  tropical  blossoms;  and  the 
brothers  must  needs  follow  the  tiny  bare  feet  and  the 
fancies  of  their  little  sister,  who  looked  marvellously 
charming  as  she  ran  over  the  great  rocks,  ran  through 
the  foaming  water,  ran  in  crystal  green  shadows, 
which  quivered  over  the  river,  under  the  heavy  awn- 
ing of  the  foliage.  Yes,  that  had  left  a  great  im- 
pression on  Gerrit;  and  he  often  talked  about  it: 

"  Constance,  do  you  remember?  What  a  nice  lit- 
tle girl  you  were  then,  though  you  were  a  little 
queer!  .  .  ." 

Until  Constance  would  laugh  and  ask  if  she  was 
no  longer  nice  now  that  she  no  longer  ran  about  bare- 


206  SMALL    SOULS 

foot  in  a  white  baadje  with  purple  kembang-spatoe  l 
on  her  temples.  Then  Gerrit  shook  his  head  and 
said,  yes,  she  was  very  nice  still,  but  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 
And,  diving  back  into  his  recollections,  he  said  that, 
two  years  later,  she  suddenly  changed,  became 
grown-up  and  a  prig  and  would  dance  with  no  one 
but  the  secretary-general.  .  .  .  And  then  Con- 
stance cried  with  laughter,  because  Gerrit  could  never 
forget  that  secretary-general.  Yes,  she  would  only 
dance  with  the  biggest  big-wigs:  she  was  a  mass  of 
vanity,  a  real  daughter  of  the  Toean  Besar.2  And 
it  was  as  though  Gerrit  were  bent  upon  getting  back 
that  little  younger  sister  who  used  to  make  up  fairy- 
tales in  the  river  behind  the  Palace  at  Buitenzorg, 
notwithstanding  that  he  was  now  a  big,  heavy,  power- 
ful fellow  and  a  captain  of  hussars.  Then  Con- 
stance would  look  at  him,  handsome,  broad,  fair- 
haired,  vigorous,  enjoying  his  drink  or  his  good  cigar, 
and  she  reflected  that  she  did  not  know  Gerrit  and 
did  not  understand  Gerrit:  very  vaguely  she  felt 
something  in  him  escape  her,  felt  it  so  vaguely  that 
it  was  hardly  a  thought,  but  merely  a  haze  passing 
over  her  bewilderment.  Adeline  sat  very  quietly 
in  the  midst  of  it,  smiling  pleasantly  at  those  remi- 
niscences, at  those  games  of  the  old  days: 

"  Yes,  it's  extraordinary,  the  way  children  play 
by  themselves !  "  she  said,  simply;  and  then  she  would 
tell  prettily  of  the  games  of  her  own  fair-haired 
brood. 

1  Tropical  flowers. 

2  The  great  house,  i.e.,  the  Viceregal  Palace  at  Buitenzorg. 


SMALL   SOULS  207 

But  Gerrit  would  shake  his  head:  no,  that  was 
romping,  what  his  boys  did,  but  the  other  thing  was 
playing,  real  playing.  Until  Constance  laughingly 
asked  him  to  talk  of  something  else  than  her  bare 
feet.  And  then  the  conversation  took  a  more  ordi- 
nary turn;  and  it  was  as  if  both  Gerrit  and  Constance 
felt  that,  although  they  liked  each  other,  they  had 
not  yet  found  each  other.  And  in  this  there  was  a 
very  gentle  melancholy  that  could  hardly  be  formu- 
lated. 

Constance  did  not  see  much  of  ErnsJX7  She  and 
Van  der  Welcke  and  Addie  had  once  lunched  with 
him  at  his  rooms  and  he  had  been  a  most  amiable 
host:  he  showed  her  the  old  family-papers,  which, 
after  Papa's  death,  he  had  asked  leave  to  keep,  be- 
cause he  took  most  interest  in  them  and  they  would 
be  in  good  hands.  He  would  leave  them  to  Gerrit's 
eldest  son:  Gerrit  was  the  only  one  of  the  four 
brothers  who,  so  far,  had  provided  heirs.  He 
showed  her  his  old  china  and  called  her  attention  to 
the  different  marks  that  were  signs  of  its  value. 
Next,  he  spread  out  an  old  piece  of  brocade,  em- 
broidered with  seed-pearls,  and  said  very  seriously 
that  it  was  a  stomacher  from  a  dress  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's. When  Constance  laughed  and  ventured  to 
express  a  doubt,  he  became  rather  grave  and  almost 
angry,  but  graciously  changed  the  conversation,  as 
one  does,  a  little  condescendingly,  with  people  who 
have  said  something  stupid,  who  have  not  the  same 
culture  as  ourselves. 

When  they  sat  down  to  lunch  in  his  room  with  its 


208  SMALL    SOULS 

beautiful  old  colouring,  the  table  was  so  carefully 
laid,  the  flowers  so  tastefully  arranged,  with  all  the 
grace  of  a  woman's  hand,  and  the  lunch  was  so  ex- 
quisite and  dainty  that  Constance,  amazed,  had  paid 
him  a  compliment.  He  half-filled  an  antique  glass 
with  champagne  and  drank  to  welcome  her  to  Hol- 
land. There  was  about  him,  about  his  surround- 
ings, about  his  manner,  something  refined  and  some- 
thing timid,  something  feminine  and  something  shy, 
something  lovable  and  yet  something  reserved,  as 
though  he  were  afraid  of  wounding  himself  or  an- 
other. He  had  obviously  devised  this  reception  in 
order  to  give  pleasure  to  Constance.  The  conversa- 
tion flagged:  Ernst  never  completed  his  sentences; 
and  his  eyes  were  always  wandering  round  the  room. 
.  .  .  After  lunch,  he  was  a  little  more  communica- 
tive and  he  then  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  thought 
on  the  grace  and  symbolism  of  a  vase.  She  listened 
with  interest,  while  she  saw  something  in  Van  der 
Welcke's  glance  as  though  he  thought  that  Ernst 
was  mad;  and  Addle  listened  very  seriously,  full  of 
tense  and  silent  astonishment.  A  vase,  Ernst  said, 
was  like  a  soul — and  he  took  in  his  hand  a  slender 
Satsuma  vase  of  ivory-tinted  porcelain,  with  the  ele- 
gant arabesques  waving  delicately  as  a  woman's  hair 
— it  was  like  a  soul.  For  Ernst  there  were  sad  and 
merry  vases,  proud  and  humble  vases;  there  were 
lovelorn  vases  and  vases  of  passion;  there  were  vases 
of  desire;  and  there  were  dead  vases,  which  only 
came  to  life  again  when  he  put  a  flower  in  them.  He 
said  all  this  very  seriously,  without  a  smile  and  also 


SMALL    SOULS  209 

without  the  rhapsody  of  an  artist  or  a  poet:  he  talked 
almost  laconically  about  his  vases,  as  though  any 
other  view  would  have  been  quite  impossible.  .  .  . 
Constance  had  not  seen  him  since  that  day,  because 
he  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  come  regularly  to 
Mamma's  Sunday-evenings.  And  she  retained  an 
impression  of  that  afternoon  spent  with  her  brother 
Ernst  as  of  something  exotic  and  strangely  symbol- 
ical, something,  it  was  true,  which  she  had  liked  and 
found  pleasant  and  refined,  but  which,  all  the  same, 
lacked  the  familiar  cordiality  of  a  brother  and  sister 
meeting  again  after  a  separation  of  years. 

As  regards  Adolphine  and  her  children,  Con- 
stance, after  a  first  sense  of  recoil,  had,  almost  un- 
consciously, laid  down  rules  for  her  feelings,  though 
perhaps  she  did  not  see  those  rules  so  very  clearly 
outlined  in  her  mind.  But,  unconsciously,  she  posi- 
tively refused  to  dislike  Adolphine  and,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  positively  determined  to  think  everything 
about  Adolphine  pleasant  and  attractive:  her  hus- 
band, her  house,  her  children  and  her  ideas.  If  any 
one,  even  Mamma,  said  the  least  thing  about  Adol- 
phine, she  at  once  espoused  her  cause,  violently. 
Through  circumstances,  such  as  the  arranging  of  her 
own  house  and  Emilie's  wedding,  she  had  not,  as  yet, 
been  often  to  the  Van  Saetzemas';  but  she  prom- 
ised herself  not  to  neglect  this  in  future  and,  with 
the  greatest  tact,  to  advise  Adolphine  in  all  sorts  of 
matters.  It  operated  strangely  in  Constance:  the 
feeling  of  recoil,  which,  after  all,  was  there;  an  ab- 
solute determination  to  act  against  this  feeling  of 


2io  SMALL    SOULS 

recoil;  and,  combined  with  these  two,  a  silent  wish, 
a  gentle  resolve  to  improve  Adolphine  in  one  way 
and  another.  She  insisted  that  Addie  should  ask 
Adolphine's  boys  to  lunch  one  Sunday;  and,  though 
her  nerves  were  racked  and  she  driven  almost  mad 
by  their  rude  manners  and  coarse  voices,  she  had 
controlled  herself  and  deliberately  played  the  kind 
auntie.  Addie,  sacrificing  himself  for  Mamma's 
sake,  had  gone  out  walking  with  his  cousins,  but  had 
taken  the  first  opportunity  of  giving  the  young  louts 
the  slip.  Knowing  his  mother's  idiosyncrasies,  he 
did  not  say  much  when  he  returned  and  even  declared 
that  they  were  not  half  bad  fellows.  When  his 
father,  however,  asked  him  if  he  understood  why 
Mamma  encouraged  those  unmannerly  cubs,  Addie 
stoically  replied,  because  they  were  cousins:  one  of 
Mamma's  ideas;  family-affection.  Constance,  mean- 
while, was  so  tired  of  the  three  young  Van  Saetzemas 
that  she  did  not  venture  to  repeat  the  experiment. 

Constance  thought  Dorin£..uncertain.  Dorine  was 
very  pleasant,  sometimes,  to  go  shopping  with,  or 
would  go  shopping  herself  for  Constance — it  was 
she  who  asked,  not  Constance — and  then,  at  other 
times,  Dorine  would  be  cold  and  nervously  irritable. 
This  was  because  Dorine  had  a  positive  mania  for 
doing  all  sorts  of  things  for  other  people,  but,  at 
the  same  time,  was  always  craving  for  appreciation 
and  never  thought  that  she  was  sufficiently  appreci- 
ated by  any  member  of  the  family  for  whose  benefit 
she  ran  about.  But  the  mania  was  too  strong  for 
her;  and  she  went  on  running  about,  for  Mamma, 


SMALL    SOULS  211 

for  Bertha,  for  Constance,  for  Adolphine,  and  was 
always  grumbling  to  herself  that  she  was  not  appre- 
ciated. Yes,  she  would  like  to  see  their  faces  if  she, 
Dorine,  said,  one  day,  that  she  was  tired!  What 
would  they  say,  she  wondered,  if  she  ventured  to 
suggest  that  one  sometimes  gets  wet  in  the  rain? 
Thus  she  always  grumbled  to  herself,  fitful,  dissatis- 
fied, discontented  and  yet  never  able  to  make  a  com- 
fortable corner  for  herself,  in  the  boarding-house 
where  she  lived,  always  tearing  along  the  streets 
from  one  sister  to  the  other.  It  was  as  though  she 
had  a  mania  that  drove  her  ever  onwards.  She  was 
miserable  if  a  day  came  when  she  had  no  errands 
to  run ;  and  she  would  go  to  Adolphine  and  say : 

"  Look  here,  if  you'd  like  me  to  go  to  Iserlef's 
and  ask  about  those  pillow  cases  for  Floortje,  you've 
only  got  to  say  so;  I'm  going  that  way  anyhow." 

And  then,  when  she  went  that  way,  she  muttered 
to  herself: 

"  At  it  again !  Of  course,  there's  only  Dorine  to 
inquire  about  Floortje's  pillow-cases!  Why  can't 
the  girl  go  herself?  Or  why  don't  they  send  the 
fl-?." 

aul  was  the  one  whom  Constance  saw  most  often 
all  the  brothers  and  sisters.  He  had  begun  by 
finding  in  her  a  fairly  sympathetic  listener  for  his 
endless  unbosomings  and  philosophizings;  then  Van 
der  Welcke  liked  him  best  and  they  sometimes  had 
a  cigarette  together  in  the  smoking-room ;  he  was  the 
most  of  a  brother  to  them  of  the  four:  just  an  or- 
dinary brother.  He  would  arrive  in  the  morning 


212  SMALL   SOULS 

and  run  straight  up  to  Constance'  room,  while  she 
was  still  dressing,  and  declare  that  of  course  he  could 
come  in,  though  she  was  in  her  petticoat.  When 
not  too  long-winded,  he  had  an  interesting  way  of 
talking  which  Van  der  Welcke  appreciated.  He  al- 
ways looked  at  Addie  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher; 
and  Addie  liked  him,  found  him  great  fun,  with  his 
exquisite  trousers  and  wonderful  neckties.  Con- 
stance was  fond  of  him;  and  it  was  in  Paul  that  she 
had  really  for  the  first  time  met  a  brother  again :  in 
Paul,  who  had  come  least  within  her  ken  in  the  old 
days,  when  she  was  a  girl  of  twenty  and  he  a  child  of 
thirteen. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"  So  you're  thinking  of  being  presented  at  Court 
next  winter?  "  said  Van  Vreeswijck,  who  had  been 
a  chum  of  Henri's  at  Leiderr~and~~who  was  now  a 
chamberlain-extraordinary  to  the  Queen  Regent,  as 
he  and  Van  der  Welcke  were  leaving  the  Plaats  to- 
gether. 

Van  der  Welcke  looked  up : 
"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  it  for  a  second." 
"  Really?     I  heard  that  you  meant  to,  or  rather 
that  it  was  your  wife's  intention." 

"  I  haven't  exchanged  a  single  word  on  the  sub- 
ject with  my  wife." 

Van  Vreeswijck  took  Van  der  Welcke's  arm: 
"  Really?     Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  could  not 
quite  understand  it." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Van  der  Welcke,  promptly 
taking  offence. 

"Look   here,    old   fellow:   I   can   speak   to   you 
frankly,  can't  I,  as  an  old  friend?     But,  if  you're 
touchy  .  .  .  then  we'll  avoid  intimate  matters." 
"  Not  at  all:  what  were  you  going  to  say?  " 
"  Nothing  that  you  won't  see  for  yourself,  if  you 
think  for  a  moment.     But,  if  the  whole  question  of 
getting  presented  at  Court  doesn't  exist  with  you 
and  your  wife,  then  don't  let  me  bring  it  up   at 
all." 

213 


2i4  SMALL   SOULS 

11  No,  no!  "  said  Van  der  Welcke,  becoming  in- 
terested. "Don't  beat  about  the  bush;  say  what 
you  meant  to  say." 

"  I  couldn't  understand  your  having  the  idea,  or 
how  the  idea  could  ever  have  occurred  to  your  wife: 
I  tell  you  so,  honestly.  De  Staffelaer  is  a  relation 
of  the  Eilenburgs  and  of  the  Van  Heuvel  Steyns; 
and  it  would  surely  be  painful  for  you  and  your  wife 
to  meet  those  people,  wouldn't  it?  .  .  .  That's 
all." 

"  Short  and  sweet,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  still 
feeling  put  out. 

"  But  that's  the  whole  point  of  it." 

"  You're  right,"  muttered  Van  der  Welcke, 
gloomily.  "  Perhaps  we  ought  never  to  have  come 
to  the  Hague." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Van  Vreeswijck,  rather  feebly. 
"  Your  old  friends  are  glad  to  see  you  back  again. 
The  question  of  the  Court  is  non-existent  with  you 
both.  Well,  then  there's  nothing  to  fret  about.  .  .  . 
As  for  myself,  I  am  more  than  glad  to  see  you  at 
the  Hague  again,"  he  continued,  more  cheerfully, 
almost  in  a  tone  of  relief.  "  I  have  the  pleasantest 
memories  of  the  occasions  when  I  had  the  privilege 
of  meeting  your  wife  in  Brussels.  When  would  it 
suit  you  both  for  me  to  come  and  call?  " 

'  Will  you  look  round  one  evening?  Or,  if  you 
really  want  to  be  friendly,  come  and  dine." 

"  I  should  like  to,  above  all  things.  When  shall 
I  come?  " 

"  Day  after  to-morrow,  at  seven." 


SMALL    SOULS  215 

"  Delighted.  Just  yourselves?  And  I'll  call  and 
leave  a  card  to-morrow." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Van  der  Welcke.  "  You 
mentioned  De  Staffelaer:  where  is  he  now?  " 

"  At  his  country-place,  near  Haarlem.  He's  still 
flourishing.  He's  well  over  eighty." 

"  He  must  be." 

They  parted.  Van  der  Welcke  went  gloomily 
home.  It  was  curious,  but,  every  afternoon,  when 
he  went  home  from  the  Witte  or  the  Plaats,  he  had 
that  gloomy,  unsettled  feeling.  The  moment  he 
set  eyes  on  Addie,  however,  his  face  at  once  lighted 
up ;  but,  this  time,  when  the  boy  wanted  to  romp,  be- 
fore dinner,  Van  der  Welcke  began  to  think  whether 
Constance  would  approve  of  his  having  asked  Van 
Vreeswijck  to  dinner  two  days  later.  .  .  . 

They  sat  down  to  table : 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  hesitatingly, 
"  I  met  Van  Vreeswijck;  and  he  wanted  to  call  on 
you  and  asked  when  it  would  suit  you." 

"  He  might  have  done  so  long  ago,"  said  Con- 
stance, who  had  entertained  Van  Vreeswijck  once  or 
twice  in  Brussels. 

"  He  apologized,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  in  de- 
fence of  his  friend.  "  He  did  not  know  whether 
you  were  quite  settled.  I  told  him  he  must  come 
and  dine  one  night  and — if  it's  not  too  much  trou- 
ble for  you — I  asked  him  to  come  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  think  he  might  have  paid  a  visit  first." 

u  He  said  something  about  leaving  a  card  to-mor- 


2i6  SMALL   SOULS 

row.  But,  if  you  don't  care  about  it,  I'll  put  him 
off." 

"  No,  it's  all  right,"  said  Constance. 

It  was  an  instinct  with  her  to  be  hospitable,  to 
have  her  house  always  open  to  her  friends.  But, 
until  now,  she  had  dreaded  asking  any  one  to  meals, 
except  Gerrit  and  Adeline,  quite  quietly,  and,  just 
once,  Paul. 

Paul  happened  to  call  that  evening. 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  Paul  too?  "  she  said  to 
her  husband. 

"  No,  of  course  not;  Paul  is  delightful." 

Paul  accepted  with  pleasure.  On  the  evening  of 
the  little  dinner,  he  was  the  first  to  arrive. 

"  Addie  is  dining  with  Gerrit  and  Adeline,"  she 
said.  "  It  will  be  nicer  for  him." 

"  How  charming  you've  made  your  place  look !  " 
said  Paul,  enthusiastically. 

She  had  a  pretty  little  drawing-room,  cosy  and 
comfortable  and  gay  with  many  flowers  in  vases. 
And  she  looked  most  charming,  young,  with  the  at- 
tractive pallor  of  her  rounded  face,  the  face  of  a 
woman  in  her  prime,  and  a  smile  in  the  dimples  about 
her  lips,  because  the  graciousness  of  a  hostess  was 
natural  to  her.  Paul  thought  her  the  best-looking 
of  all  his  sisters,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  her  black 
dress :  a  film  of  black  mousseline-de-soie  and  black 
lace,  falling  in  a  diaphanous  cloud  over  white  taffeta. 
There  reigned,  in  her  rooms,  in  herself,  the  easy 
grace  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  a  quality  which  Paul 
had  not  yet  observed  in  her,  because  until  now  he  had 


SMALL   SOULS  217 

seen  her  either  quite  intimately,  in  her  bedroom,  or 
at  those  crowded  family-evenings.  It  was  as  though 
she  had  come  into  her  own  again. 

Yes,  as  she  now  welcomed  Van  Vreeswijck,  with 
a  soft,  playful  word  or  two,  Paul  thought  her  simply 
adorable.  He  suddenly  understood  that,  ten  years 
ago,  his  sister  might  well  have  been  irresistible. 
Even  now,  she  had  something  about  her  so  young, 
charming,  engaging,  pretty  and  distinguished  that 
she  was  a  revelation  to  him.  She  was  an  exquisite 
woman. 

She  had  not  hired  a  man-servant:  the  parlour- 
maid would  wait.  She  herself  drew  back  the  hang- 
ings from  the  dining-room  door-way  and,  without 
taking  Van  Vreeswijck's  arm,  asked  the  men  to  come 
in  to  dinner.  A  pink  light  of  shaded  candles  slum- 
bered over  the  table,  with  its  bunch  of  grapes  and 
its  pink  roses  and  maiden-hair  fern,  in  between  the 
crystal  and  the  silver. 

"  But  this  is  most  charming!  "  said  Paul,  to  him- 
self, for  he  could  not  tell  his  sister  so  yet,  as  she  and 
Van  der  Welcke  were  talking  to  Van  Vreeswijck. 
"  This  is  most  charming !  A  party  of  four,  like 
this,  in  this  pretty  room.  That's  just  what  I  like. 
Compare  all  that  formality  of  Bertha's.  Bertha 
never  gives  these  intimate  little  dinners.  This  is  just 
what  I  like  at  my  age  " — Paul  was  thirty-five — "  no 
formality,  but  everything  elegant  and  nicely-served 
and  good.  .  .  .  Excellent  hors  d'ceuvres!  Con- 
stance knows  how  to  do  things !  Compare  the 
friendly,  but  homely  rumpsteak  which  I  sometimes 


218  SMALL    SOULS 

get  at  Gerrit  and  Adeline's;  or  Adolphine's  harum- 
scarum  dinners.  .  .  .  No,  this  is  as  it  should  be: 
a  quiet,  friendly  little  dinner  and  yet  everything  just 
right.  .  .  .  Van  Vreeswijck's  dinner-jacket  looks 
very  well  on  him;  only  I  don't  like  the  cut  of  his 
waistcoat:  too  high,  I  think,  his  waistcoat.  Those 
are  nice  buttons  of  his.  But  he's  wearing  a  ready- 
made  black  tie !  How  is  it  possible !  Strange  how 
you  suddenly  perceive  an  aberration  like  that  in  a 
man:  a  ready-made  tie!  Who  on  earth  wears  a 
ready-made  tie  nowadays  I  Still,  he  looks  very  well 
otherwise.  .  .  .  Nice  soup,  this  veloute.  .  .  . 
What  a  duck  Constance  looks !  Would  you  ever 
think  that  she  was  a  woman  of  two-and- forty !  She's 
like  Mamma:  Mamma  also  has  that  softness,  that 
distinction,  that  same  smile;  Mamma  even  has  those 
dimples  still,  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  .  .  .  No, 
none  of  my  other  sisters  could  have  done  that,  pulled 
back  the  hangings  herself  with  that  pretty  gesture  and 
asked  us  so  naturally  to  come  in  to  dinner.  .  .  . 
You'll  see,  Constance  will  make  her  house  very  cosy, 
even  though  they  are  not  rich  and  though  they  won't 
go  into  society  officially.  These  friendly  little  din- 
ners are  just  the  thing.  .  .  ." 

He  had  to  join  in  the  conversation  now,  with  Van 
Vreeswijck;  and  Van  der  Welcke,  who  was  in  a  pleas- 
ant mood,  let  himself  go  in  a  burst  of  irrepressible 
frankness : 

*  Tell  me,  Vreeswijck,  who  is  it  that's  been  saying 
we  wanted  to  be  presented  at  Court?  .  .  ." 

Van  Vreeswijck  hesitated,  thought  it  a  dangerous 


SMALL    SOULS  219 

subject  of  conversation.  But  Constance  laughed 
gently : 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  seconding  her  husband,  "  there 
seems  to  be  a  rumour  that  we  have  that  intention; 
and  the  intention  never  existed  for  a  moment." 

Van  Vreeswijck  breathed  again,  relieved: 

"  Oh,  mevrouw,  how  do  people  ever  get  hold  of 
their  notions?  One  will  suggest,  'I  wonder  if 
they  mean  to  be  presented?'  The  other  catches 
only  the  last  words  and  says,  *  They  mean  to  be  pre- 
sented ! '  And  so  the  story  gets  about." 

"  I  shouldn't  care  for  it  in  the  least,"  said  Con- 
stance. "  I  have  become  so  used,  of  late,  to  a  quiet 
life  that  I  should  think  it  tiresome  to  be  paying  and 
receiving  a  lot  of  visits.  I  am  glad  to  be  at  the 
Hague,  because  I  am  back  among  my  family.  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  family  is  very  glad  too !  "  said  Paul, 
with  brotherly  gallantry,  and  raised  his  glass. 

She  thanked  him  with  her  little  laugh : 

"  But  I  want  nothing  more  than  that.  And  I 
don't  think  Henri  cares  for  anything  else  either." 

"  No,  not  at  all !  "  said  Van  der  Welcke.  "  Only, 
I  can't  understand  why  people  at  once  start  talking 
about  others  and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
pretend  to  know  more  about  a  fellow's  plans  than  he 
himself  does.  I  never  talk  about  anybody!  " 

"  I  must  admit,"  Constance  laughed,  "  that  I  often 
differ  from  my  husband,  but  in  this  we  are  absolutely 
at  one:  I  too  never  talk  about  anybody!  " 

"  But  that  people  should  talk  about  us  is  only  nat- 
ural, I  suppose !  "  said  Van  der  Welcke  and  threw 


220  SMALL   SOULS 

up  his  young,  blue  eyes,  almost  ingenuously.  "  They 
had  forgotten  us  for  years  and  now  they  see  us 
again." 

"  He  oughtn't  to  have  said  that,"  thought  Paul. 
"  Sometimes,  he  is  just  like  a  young  colt.  .  .  ." 

And  he  could  understand  that  Constance  occasion- 
ally felt  peevish.  These  allusions,  however  slight, 
must  necessarily  vex  her,  he  thought.  Van  der 
Welcke,  when  he  let  himself  go,  was  capable  of  say- 
ing very  tactless  things.  He  generally  restrained 
himself,  but,  when  he  did  not,  he  became  too  spon- 
taneous for  anything.  And  Paul  said  something  to 
Van  Vreeswijck  to  change  the  conversation. 

Yes,  Paul  felt  for  his  sister.  After  all,  that  sort 
of  past  always  remained,  always  clung  about  one. 
They  were  sitting  here  so  cosily;  Van  Vreeswijck  was 
a  charming  talker;  and  yet,  at  every  moment,  there 
were  little  rocks  against  which  the  conversation  ran. 
Constance  was  behaving  well,  thought  Paul :  he  had 
seen  her  quite  different,  flying  out  at  the  least  word. 
But  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world:  she  did  not  fly 
out  before  a  stranger.  .  .  .  Here  they  were  again, 
though:  the  conversation  was  turning  on  old  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke.  There  they  were  again: 
he  felt  that  Van  Vreeswijck  hesitated  even  before 
asking  after  the  old  people;  and  not  until  Constance 
herself  said  that  she  thought  them  both  looking  so 
well  did  Van  Vreeswijck  venture  to  go  on  talking 
about  that  father-  and  mother-in-law,  who  had  sacri- 
ficed their  son,  who  had  refused  for  years  to  see  their 
daughter-in-law  and  even  their  grandchild.  .  .  . 


SMALL    SOULS  221 

Surely    it    was    better    to    talk    about    indifferent 
things.  .   .  . 

But  this  was  not  only  one  of  Constance'  handsome, 
but  also  one  of  her  amiable  evenings.  As  a  host- 
ess, in  however  small  a  way,  she  came  into  her  own 
and  was  like  another  woman,  much  more  gentle, 
without  any  bitterness  and  ready  to  accept  the  fact 
that  a  rock  had  to  be  doubled  now  and  again.  Her 
smile  gave  to  her  cheeks  a  roundness  that  made  her 
look  younger.  What  a  pity,  thought  Paul,  that  she 
was  not  always  just  like  that,  so  full  of  tact,  always 
the  hostess  in  her  own  house,  hostess  to  her  husband 
too: 

"  How  strange  women  are,"  he  thought.  "  If  I 
were  dining  here  alone  with  them,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  and  if  these  same  rocks  had  oc- 
curred in  the  conversation,  Constance  would  have 
lost  her  temper  three  times  by  now  and  Van  der 
Welcke  would  have  caught  it  finely.  And  now  that 
there's  a  guest,  now  that  we  are  in  our  dinner-jack- 
ets and  Constance  in  an  evening-frock,  now  that  there 
are  grapes  and  flowers  on  the  table  and  a  more  elab- 
orate menu  than  usual,  now  she  does  not  lose  her 
temper  and  won't  lose  her  temper,  however  many 
rocks  we  may  have  to  steer  past.  I  believe  that, 
even  if  we  began  to  talk  about  infidelity  and  divorce, 
about  marriages  with  old  men  and  love-affairs  with 
young  ones,  she  would  remain  quite  calm,  smiting 
prettily  with  those  little  dimples  at  the  corners  of 
her  mouth,  as  though  nothing  could  apply  to  her. 
.  .  .  What  strange  creatures  women  are,  full 


222  SMALL    SOULS 

of  little  reserves  of  force  that  make  them  very  pow- 
erful in  life!  .  .  .  And,  presently,  when  Van 
Vreeswijck  is  gone,  she  will  rave  at  Van  der  Welcke 
if  he  so  much  as  blows  his  nose;  and  all  her  little  re- 
serve-forces will  have  vanished;  and  she  will  be  left 
without  the  smallest  self-control.  .  .  .  Still,  in  any 
case,  she  is  most  charming;  and  I  have  had  a  capital 
dinner  and  am  feeling  very  pleasant.  .  .  ." 

The  bell  rang  and,  through  the  open  door  lead- 
ing to  the  hall,  Constance  and  Paul  heard  voices  at 
the  front-door: 

"  That's  Adolphine's  voice !  "  said  Constance. 

"  And  Carolientje's,"  said  Paul.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  then  I  won't  stay !  "  they  heard  Adolphine 
say,  loudly,  shrilly. 

Constance  rose  from  her  chair.  She  thought  it 
a  bore  that  Adolphine  should  call  just  in  this  even- 
ing, but  she  was  bent  upon  never  allowing  Adolphine 
to  see  that  she  was  unwelcome : 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  van  Vreeswijck,  for  a  moment. 
I  hear  my  sister.  .  .  ." 

She  went  out  into  the  passage : 

"  How  are  you,  Adolphine?  " 

"How  are  you,  Constance?"  said  Adolphine. 

She  knew  that  Constance  was  giving  a  little  din- 
ner that  evening  and  she  had  come  prying  on  pur- 
pose, though  she  pretended  to  know  nothing: 

"  I  just  looked  in,"  she  said,  "  as  I  was  passing 
with  Carolientje;  I  saw  a  light  in  your  windows  and 
thought  you  must  be  at  home.  But  your  servant 
says  that  you're  having  a  dinner-party !  "  said  Adol- 


SMALL    SOULS  223 

phine,  tartly  and  reproachfully,  as  though  Constance 
had  no  right  to  give  a  dinner. 

"  Not  a  dinner-party.  Van  Vreeswijck  and  Paul 
are  dining  with  us." 

"Van  Vreeswijck?  Oh!"  said  Adolphine. 
"The  one  at  Court?" 

"  He's  a  chamberlain  of  the  Regent's,"  said  Con- 
stance, simply. 

"Oh!" 

"  He's  an  old  friend  of  Van  der  Welcke's,"  said 
Constance,  almost  in  self-excuse. 

"Oh!     Well,  then  I  won't  disturb  you.  .  .  ." 

The  dining-room  door  was  open.  Adolphine 
peeped  in  and  saw  the  three  men  talking  over  their 
dessert.  She  saw  the  candles,  the  flowers,  the  din- 
ner-jackets of  the  men;  she  noticed  Constance' 
dress.  .  .  . 

"  Do  come  in,  Adolphine,"  said  Constance,  mas- 
tering herself  and  in  her  gentlest  voice. 

"  No,  thanks.  If  you're  having  a  dinner-party, 
I  won't  come  in,  at  dessert.  .  .  .  Oof!  How  hot 
it  is  in  here,  Constance:  do  you  still  keep  on  fires? 
It's  suffocating  in  your  house;  and  so  dark,  with 
those  candles.  How  pale  you  look!  Aren't  you 
feeling  well  ?  " 

"  Pale?     No,  I'm  feeling  very  well  indeed." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  must  be  tired  or  ill,  you  look 
so  awfully  pale!  You're  not  looking  well.  Per- 
haps you've  put  on  too  much  powder.  Or  is  it  your 
dress  that  makes  you  look  pale?  Is  that  one  of 
your  Brussels  dresses?  I  don't  think  it  improves 


224  SMALL    SOULS 

you !  Your  grey  cashmere  suits  you  much  bet- 
ter." 

"  Yes,  Adolphine,  but  that's  a  walking-dress." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  you  can't  wear  that  at  a  dinner, 
at  a  dinner-party.  Still,  I  prefer  that  walking- 
dress." 

"  Won't  you  come  in  for  a  moment?  " 

"  No,  I'm  only  in  walking-dress,  you  see,  Con- 
stance dear.  And  Carolientje  too.  And  then  I 
don't  want  to  disturb  you,  at  your  men's  dinner- 
party." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Adolphine,  that  you  should  have 
called  just  this  night,  if  you  won't  come  in.  Come 
in  to  tea  some  other  evening  soon,  will  you?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  don't  often  come  this  way:  you 
live  so  far  from  everywhere,  in  this  depressing  Kerk- 
hoflaan.  At  least,  I  always  think  it  depressing. 
What  induced  you  to  come  and  live  here,  tell  me, 
between  two  graveyards?  It's  not  healthy  to  live 
in,  you  know,  because  of  the  miasma.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  we  never  notice  anything!  " 

"  Ah,  that's  because  you  always  keep  your  win- 
dows shut!  You  want  more  ventilation,  really,  in 
Holland.  I  assure  you,  I  should  stifle  in  this  atmos- 
phere." 

"  Come,  Adolphine,  do  come  in.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  really  not.  I'm  going;  make  my  apologies 
to  your  husband.  Good-bye,  Constance.  Come, 
Carolientje." 

And,  as  though  she  were  really  suffocating,  she 
hurried  to  the  front-door  with  her  daughter,  first 


SMALL   SOULS  225 

glancing  through  the  open  door  of  the  dining-room, 
noticing  the  hot-house  grapes,  the  pink  roses,  screw- 
ing up  her  eyes  to  read  the  label  on  the  champagne- 
bottle  from  which  Paul  was  filling  up  the  glasses. 
Then  she  pushed  Carolientje  before  her  and  de- 
parted, slamming  the  front-door  after  her.  .  .  . 

Constance  went  back  to  the  dining-room.  Her 
nerves  were  shaken,  but  she  kept  a  good  counte- 
nance. 

"  It  was  Adolphine,  wasn't  it?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Yes,  but  she  wouldn't  come  in,"  said  Constance. 
"  It's  such  a  pity,  she's  such  good  company.  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  mean  it,  but  she  wished  to  mean  it. 
That  she  said  so  was  not  hypocrisy  on  her  part.  Any 
other  evening,  after  Adolphine's  comments,  all  in 
five  minutes,  on  her  house,  her  street,  her  candles, 
her  fires,  her  dress  and  her  complexion,  she  would 
probably  have  flung  herself  at  full  length  on  her 
sofa,  to  recover  from  the  annoyance  of  it.  But  now 
she  was  the  hostess ;  and  she  showed  no  discomposure 
and  asked  the  men  not  to  mind  her  and  to  stay  and 
smoke  their  cigars  with  her,  at  the  dinner-table.  She 
herself  poured  out  the  coffee,  from  her  dainty  little 
silver-gilt  service,  and  the  liqueurs;  and,  when  Paul 
asked  her  if  she  would  not  smoke  a  cigarette,  she 
answered,  with  her  pretty  expression  and  the  little 
laugh  at  the  bend  of  her  lips  which  made  her  so 
young  that  night  and  caused  her  to  look  so  very 
charming : 

"  No,  I  used  to  smoke,  in  my  flighty  days;  but  I 
gave  it  up  long  ago." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MARIETJE  VAN  SAETZEMA  stood  at  the  window  and 
looked  out  into  the  street.  She  looked  down  the 
whole  street,  because  the  house,  a  corner-house,  stood 
not  in  the  length  of  it,  but  in  the  width,  half-closing 
the  street,  making  it  a  sort  of  courtyard  of  big 
houses.  The  street  stretched  to  some  distance;  and 
another  house  part-closed  the  farther  end,  turning 
it  actually  into  a  courtyard,  occupied  by  well-to-do 
people.  The  two  rows  of  gables  ran  along  with  a 
fine  independence  of  chimney-stacks,  of  little  cast- 
iron  pinnacles  and  pointed  zinc  roofs,  little  copper 
weathercocks  and  little  balconies  and  bow-windows, 
as  though  the  architects  and  builders  had  conspired 
to  produce  something  artistic  and  refused  to  design 
one  long  monotonous  gable-line.  But  the  new  street 
—it  was  about  twenty  years  old — had  nevertheless 
retained  the  Dutch  trimness  that  characterizes  the 
dwellings  of  the  better  classes:  the  well-scrubbed 
pavements  ran  into  the  distance,  growing  ever  nar- 
rower to  the  eye,  with  their  grey  hem  of  kerb-stone, 
their  regularly-recurring  lamp-posts;  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  was  a  plantation:  oval  grass-plots 
surrounded  by  low  railings,  in  which  were  chestnut- 
trees,  neatly  pruned,  and,  beneath  them,  a  neat  shrub- 
bery of  dwarf  firs.  The  fronts  of  the  houses  glis- 
tened with  cleanliness  after  the  spring  cleaning;  the 
tidily-laid  bricks  displayed  their  rectangular  outlines 

226 


SMALL   SOULS  227 

clearly,  even  at  a  distance;  the  window-frames  were 
bright  with  fresh  paint,  dazzling  cream-colour  or 
pale  brown;  the  blinds,  neatly  lowered  in  front  of 
the  shining  plate-glass  windows,  were  let  down  in 
each  house  precisely  the  same  depth,  as  though 
mathematically  measured;  and  the  houses  concealed 
their  inner  lives  very  quietly  behind  the  straight, 
nicely-balanced  lace  curtains.  And  this  was  very 
characteristic,  that  above  each  gable  there  jutted  a 
flagstaff,  held  aslant  with  iron  pins,  the  staff  painted 
a  bright  red,  white  and  blue — the  national  colours — 
as  though  wound  about  with  ribbons,  with  a  freshly- 
gilded  knob  at  the  top.  All  those  flagstaffs — a  for- 
est of  staffs,  with  their  iron  pins,  for  ever  aslant  on 
the  gables — waited  patiently  to  hoist  their  colours, 
to  wave  their  bunting,  twice  a  year,  for  the  Queen 
and  her  mother,  the  Regent. 

Marietje  looked  out.  It  was  May;  and  the  chest- 
nuts in  the  grass-plots  tried  to  outstretch  and  unfurl 
their  soft,  pale-green  fans,  now  folded  and  bent  back 
against  their  stalks.  But  a  mad  wind  whirled 
through  the  street,  which  was  like  a  courtyard  of 
opulence,  and  the  wind  scourged  the  still  furled 
chestnut-fans.  The  girl  looked  at  them  compassion- 
ately as  they  were  whipped  to  and  fro  by  the  wind, 
the  eager  young  leaves  which,  full  of  vernal  life  and 
pride  of  youth,  were  trying  hard  to  unfold.  The 
tender  leaves  were  full  of  hope,  because  yesterday 
the  sun  had  shone,  after  the  rain,  out  of  a  flood- 
swept  sky;  and  they  thought  that  their  leafy  days 
were  beginning,  their  life  of  leaves  budding  out  from 


228  SMALL    SOULS 

stalk  and  twig.  They  did  not  know  that  the  wind 
was  always  at  work,  lashing,  as  with  angry  scourges, 
with  stinging  whips;  they  did  not  know  that  their 
leafy  parents  had  been  lashed  last  year,  even  as  they 
were  now;  and,  though  they  loved  the  wind,  upon 
which  they  dreamt  of  floating  and  waving  and  being 
merry  and  happy,  they  never  expected  to  be  lashed 
with  whips  even  before  they  had  unfurled  all  the 
young  bravery  of  their  green. 

The  wind  was  pitiless.  The  wind  lashed  through 
the  air  like  one  possessed,  like  a  madman  that  had 
no  feeling:  strong  in  his  might  and  blind  in  his  heart- 
lessness.  And  the  girl's  pity  went  out  to  the  eager 
leaves,  the  young,  hoping  leaves,  which  she  saw 
shaken  and  pulled  and  scourged  and  driven  with- 
ered across  the  street.  The  blind,  all-powerful 
north-east  wind  filled  the  street:  the  weathercocks 
spun  madly;  the  iron  pins  of  the  flagstaff  creaked 
goutily  and  painfully;  the  flagstaffs  themselves  bent 
as  though  they  were  the  masts  of  a  fleet  of  houses 
moored  in  a  roadstead  of  bricks. 

The  girl  looked  out  into  the  street.  It  was  a  May 
morning.  Standing  in  front  of  one  house  and  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  like  sailors  on  a  ship  were  men 
dressed  in  white  sailors'-jackets,  busy  fixing  ladders 
and  climbing  up  them  to  clean  the  plate-glass  win- 
dows. They  swarmed  up  the  ladders,  carrying  pails 
of  water;  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest  of  masts, 
of  the  red-white-and-blue  flagstaffs,  they  looked  like 
seamen  gaily  rigging  a  ship. 

Along  the  street  went  the  brightly-painted  carts 


SMALL    SOULS  229 

of  a  laundry,  a  pastrycook,  a  butter-factory.  Hard 
behind  came  loud-voiced  hawkers  pushing  barrows 
with  oranges  and  the  very  first  purple-stained  straw- 
berries. And  the  whole  economy  of  eating  and 
drinking  of  those  tidy  houses,  whose  life  lay  hidden 
behind  their  lace  curtains,  filled  the  morning  street. 
Butcher-boys  prevailed.  Each  house  had  a  different 
butcher.  Broad  and  sturdy,  the  boys  walked  along 
in  their  clean,  white  smocks,  carrying  their  wicker 
baskets  of  quivering  meat  held,  with  a  fist  at  the 
handle,  firmly  on  shoulder  or  hip,  bending  their 
bodies  a  little  because  of  the  weight;  and  they  rang 
at  all  the  doors.  Sometimes,  a  couple  bicycled 
swiftly  down  the  street.  At  all  the  houses  they  de- 
livered loads  of  meat:  beefsteaks  and  rumpsteaks 
and  fillet-steaks  and  ribs  and  sirloins  of  beef  and 
balls  of  forced-meat;  the  maid-servants  took  the  meat 
in  at  the  front-doors,  with  an  exchange  of  chaff, 
and  then  closed  the  door  again  with  a  bang.  The 
butcher-boys  largely  prevailed;  but  the  greengrocers, 
with  their  barrows  arranged  with  fresh  vegetables, 
were  also  many  in  number.  The  dairy,  with  its  cart 
filled  with  polished  copper  cans,  rang  at  every  door; 
and  notable  for  its  ostentatious  neatness  was  a  van, 
conveying  beer  in  cans:  the  driver,  who  was  con- 
stantly getting  down  and  ringing,  wore  a  sort  of 
brown  shooting-suit,  with  top-boots  and  a  motor- 
cap;  the  cart  was  painted  with  earthenware  cans 
swelling  out  in  relief  from  the  panels.  A  barrel- 
organ  quavered  on,  playing  a  very  doleful  tune:  the 
organ-man  ground  out  a  bit  of  dolefulness,  stopped 


230  SMALL    SOULS 

and  then  pushed  on  again;  his  old  woman  rang  at 
every  door,  put  the  coppers  she  received  in  her 
pocket,  as  if  she  were  collecting  so  many  debts. 
Each  time,  the  maids,  in  their  lilac-print  dresses,  ap- 
peared at  the  doors,  or  leant  out  and  looked  from 
the  open  windows  of  the  bedrooms,  or  called  out  and 
flung  down  the  rich  man's  dole  of  coppers.  Do- 
mestic economy  filled  the  street,  while  the  wind,  the 
blundering,  mighty  wind,  blew  on.  A  gentlemani 
passed  on  his  way  to  his  office,  hugging  a  portfolio. 
Two  girls  flew  by  on  bicycles;  a  lady  hurried  along 
on  some  urgent  errand.  But,  for  the  rest,  there 
was  nothing  but  the  economy  of  eating  and  drinking. 
It  filled  the  street,  it  rang  and  rang  and  rang  until 
all  the  houses  chimed  with  the  ringing.  And  the 
houses  took  in  their  supplies,  the  street  grew  quiet: 
only  the  wind  blew  the  young  chestnut-leaves  to 
pieces  and  the  flagstaffs  groaned  on  their  creaking, 
gouty  pins.  .  .  . 

Marietje  turned  away.  She  was  a  pale,  fair- 
haired  little  thing  of  sixteen,  with  pale-blue  eyes  and 
a  white,  bloodless  skin.  Her  hair,  brushed  off  her 
forehead,  was  already  done  up  behind  into  a  knob. 
She  wore  a  little  pinafore  to  protect  her  frock.  And 
now  she  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  to  tap  out 
her  scales. 

The  room  in  which  Marietje  was  practising  was 
the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  fairly  large  room  on 
the  first  floor,  but  it  was  so  terribly  crammed  with 
furniture,  arranged  in  studied  confusion,  with  an 
affectation  of  elegance,  that  there  was  hardly  space 


SMALL    SOULS  231 

to  move  about  or  sit.  On  the  backs  of  all  the 
chairs  hung  fancy  antimacassars,  flattened  by  the 
pressure  of  reclining  forms,  with  faded  and  crumpled 
ribbons.  On  all  sorts  of  little  tables  stood  nameless 
ornaments:  little  earthenware  dogs  and  china  smell- 
ing-bottles, set  out  as  in  a  tenpenny  bazaar.  The 
wall-paper  displayed  big  flowers,  the  carpet  more 
big  flowers,  of  a  different  species,  while  on  the  cur- 
tains blossomed  a  third  kind  of  flower;  and  the  col- 
ours of  all  these  flowers  yelled  at  one  another  like 
so  many  screeching  parrots.  In  the  corners  of  the 
room  rose  dusty  Makart  bouquets,  which  decorated 
those  same  corners  year  in,  year  out. 

Marietje  played  her  scales  in  the  drawing-room, 
while  the  wind  howled  down  the  chimney,  which 
smelt  of  soot  after  the  winter  fires.  Conscien- 
tiously Marietje  played  her  scales  with  her  stub- 
born little  fingers,  constantly  making  the  same  mis- 
take, which  she  did  not  hear  and  therefore  did  not 
correct,  thinking  that  it  was  right  as  it  was.  Now 
and  then,  she  looked  up  through  the  window: 

"Poor  trees!"  thought  Marietje.  "Poor 
leaves !  See  how  the  wind's  killing  them ;  and 
they're  hardly  open  yet !  .  .  ." 

She  played  on,  conscientiously,  but  she  dearly 
wished  that  she  coula  make  the  wind  stop,  to  save  the 
leaves,  the  young  chestnut-leaves.  She  remembered, 
it  was  just  the  same  thing  last  spring.  The  spring  be- 
fore that,  it  was  the  same  too.  And  then,  when  the 
chestnut-leaves  were  at  last  able  to  unfurl  themselves, 
in  a  quiet,  windless  moment,  then  they  were  scorched 


232  SMALL    SOULS 

and  shrivelled  for  the  whole  summer,  for  their  whole 
leafy  lives.     Poor  trees!     Poor  leaves!  .  .  . 

The  stubborn  fingers  went  on  conscientiously,  tap- 
ping out  the  scales  and  constantly  playing  that  same 
wrong  note  with  almost  comical  persistency:  ting! 
The  front-door  bell  was  constantly  going  ting-a-ling, 
ting-a-ling !  All  those  noises — the  wind :  whew,  boo  1 
The  scales :  ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta ;  ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta, 
ta-ta.  The  front-door  bell :  ting-a-ling,  ting-a-ling ! 
The  barrel-organs  in  the  street,  two  going  at  the 
same  time.  The  colours  indoors :  the  colours  of  the 
wall-paper  and  curtains  and  carpet,  screeching  like 
parrots.  The  cries  of  the  costermongers  o.utside: 
"  Strawberrees !  .  .  .  Fine  strawberrees!  "  The 
rattle  of  the  greengrocers'  carts,  clattering  over  the 
noisy  cobble-stones — all  these  noises  rang  out  to- 
gether and  it  was  as  though  the  wind  defined  and 
accentuated  each  individual  sound,  blowing  away  a 
mist  from  each  sound,  leaving  only  the  rough,  reso- 
nant kernel  of  each  sound  to  ring  out  against  the 
glittering  plate-glass  windows,  along  the  goutily- 
creaking  flagstaffs,  into  this  room,  where  the  parrot- 
colours  jabbered  aloud.  .  .  . 

It  blew  and  rang  and  screeched  and  jabbered;  and 
the  girl  with  her  continual  false  note — ting ! — heard 
none  of  it,  but  thought  only,  "  Oh,  those  poor  trees ! 
Oh,  those  poor  leaves !  "  in  her  gentle  little,  hyper- 
sensitive soul.  Used  as  she  was  to  the  wind,  the 
noises  and  the  colours,  she  saw  nothing  but  the  trees, 
heard  nothing  but  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  nor 
heard  her  own  persistent  little  false  note:  ting! 


SiMALL   SOULS  233 

Ting-a-ling,  ting-a-ling  went  the  bell ;  and  the  wind 
must  have  rushed  through  the  front-door  and  up 
the  stairs,  for  the  drawing-room  door  blew  open  as 
lightly  as  though  the  great  door  had  been  no  more 
than  a  sheet  of  note-paper;  the  maid  came  pound- 
ing up  the  stairs,  the  stairs  creaked,  another  door 
slammed;  the  maid,  at  the  door,  screamed  out  some- 
thing loud  through  the  house,  loud  through  the  wind, 
loud  through  all  the  sounds  and  colours;  another 
voice  sounded  sharply  in  reply;  the  maid  went 
pounding  down  again,  the  stairs  creaked  and  bang 
went  the  door: 

'  Will  you  please  go  upstairs,  mevrouw?  " 

"  Come  upstairs,   Cateau !  " 

"  But  am  I  re-ally  not  disturb-ing  you,  Adolph- 
ine?" 

"  No,  come  up." 

"What  a  wind,  eh,  Phi-i-ine?  Eh?  How  it's 
blow-ing !  " 

Ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta;  ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta,  ta-ta, 
went  Marietje's  scales,  as  Mamma  entered  with  Aunt 
Cateau.  Whew,  boo !  blew  the  wind.  C-r-rack, 
cr-r-rack !  went  the  flagstaff  outside  the  window.  .  .  . 

"  Good-morn-ing,  Marie-tje.  And  tell  me,  Phi-i- 
ine,  was  it  a  reg-ular  din-ner?" 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  formal  dinner." 

"Oh,  so  they  do  see  peo-ple?  And  I  thought 
they  lived  so  qui-etly.  We  are  nev-er  asked  there; 
are  you,  Adolph-ine?" 

"  No,  never." 

"  I  do  think  she  might  al-so  some-times  show  a 


234  SMALL    SOULS 

little  polite-ness  to  her  brothers  and  sis-ters.  We 
nev-er  see  peo-ple,  as  you  know,  don't  you,  Adolph- 
ine?  Ka-rel  doesn't  care  for  it;  he  only  cares  for 
qui-et.  /  should  rather  like  it.  But  it's  Ka-rel,  you 
see,  who  doesn't  care  for  it.  And  who  were  there, 
Adolph-ine?" 

"  Oh,  well,  they  know  nobody,  so  it  looked  to  me 
rather  like  a  failure.  Nobody  except  that  Vrees- 
wijck.  No  doubt,  they'd  had  one  or  two  refusals, 
for  they'd  asked  Paul  to  make  up  the  party." 

"  Oh,  Paul?  No  doubt,  one  or  two  must  have 
refused!  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"  Well,  re-ally,  Con-stance  is  ...  But  then  7 
don't  call  a  din-ner  like  that  a  success.  Do  you, 
Adolph-ine?" 

"  No,  I  thought  it  ridiculous.  A  dinner-party  of 
four!" 

"  Were  the  men  dressed?  " 

"  Yes,  dressed." 

"  And  Con-stance  ?     Low-necked?" 

"  No,  not  low-necked,  but  smart  as  paint.  And 
champagne !  " 

"Re-ally!     Cham-pagne  as  we-ell?" 

"Yes,  a  cheap  brand.  And  the  rooms  so  dark: 
I  didn't  think  it  respectable.  Such  a  dim  light,  you 
know.  Quite  disreputable,  I  thought,  with  those 
three  men,"  said  Adolphine,  whispering  because  of 
Marietje. 

"She  can't  hear,  she's  play-ing.  Oh,  re-ally! 
And  what  next?" 


SMALL    SOULS  235 

"  Well,  I  think,  if  Constance  wants  to  see  people 
in  that  sort  of  way,  she  could  have  done  so  just  as 
well  in  Brussels.  She's  supposed  to  have  come  here 
for  the  family." 

"  But  she  doesn't  ask  the  fam-ily.  Oh,  you 
mustn't  count  us,  Phi-i-ine.  We  al-ways  live  ve-ry 
qui-etly.  It's  Ka-rel,  you  see." 

"  But  I  feel  sure  now  that  she  means  to  get  pre- 
sented at  Court." 

"  Yes,  by  Vrees-wijck,  no  doubt.  Will  he  present 
her  to  the  Queen? "  asked  Cateau,  rounding  her 
owl's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  Adolphine,  irritably.  "  But  they 
mean  to  push  themselves  with  his  assistance." 

"Oh,  is  that  the  way  it's  done?  You  see,  we 
know  no-thing  about  the  Court.  You  wouldn't  get 
Ka-rel  to  go  to  Court  for  any-thing!  Not  if  you 
paid  him !  But  now  it's  quite  cert-ain." 

"  Yes,  I'm  convinced  of  it  now." 

"  About  the  Court?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh !  Well,  I  al-ways  thought  that  Con-stance 
Would  have  too  much  tact  for  that.  And  may  I  have 
a  look  at  Floortje's  trous-seau  now,  Adolph-ine? 
She'll  be  mar-ried  quite  soon  now,  won't  she?  In 
a  week?  Ah!  And  I  al-ways  think  it  so  nice  to  be 
mar-ried  in  May,  don't  you,  Adolph-ine?  " 

The  two  sisters'  voices  whined  and  snarled,  the 
stairs  creaked,  the  doors  slammed.  Ta-ta,  ta-ta, 
ta-ta,  ta-ta,  went  the  scales.  Whew,  boo,  whew! 
went  the  wind,  roaring  down  the  sooty  chimney. 


236  SMALL   SOULS 

Cr-r-rack!  Cr-r-rack!  went  the  gouty  flagstaff. 
"  Strawberrees !  .  .  .  Fine  strawberrees !  "  shouted 
the  costermonger  outside.  Ting!  went  Marietje's 
obstinate  false  note. 

The  girl  looked  up  through  the  window. 

"  Those  poor  trees !  "  thought  Marietje.  "  Oh, 
those  poor  leaves !  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ADOLPHINE  enjoyed  showing  Cateau  Floortje's 
trousseau,  with  its  stacks  of  linen.  Adolphine  at- 
tached more  importance  to  her  own  house,  her  own 
children,  her  own  furniture,  her  own  affairs,  matters 
and  things  than  to  anything  else  in  the  world.  She 
was  never  tired  of  displaying,  for  the  extorted  ad- 
miration of  the  sister  or  friend  who  came  to  visit 
her,  the  thickness  of  her  carpets,  the  heaviness  of 
her  curtains,  the  taste  with  which  she  had  arranged 
the  ornaments  in  her  drawing-room;  and  she  praised 
all  that  belonged  to  her,  cried  it  up  as  though  for  a 
sale,  inviting  the  appreciation  of  her  sister  or  friend. 
In  her  heart  of  hearts,  she  was  always  afraid  of  being 
eclipsed  and,  in  order  to  conceal  her  fear  from  the 
other's  eyes,  she  bragged  and  boasted  of  all  her  be- 
longings. The  fact  that  she  was  a  Van  Lowe  ap- 
peared in  this,  that  she  included  her  husband  and 
children  and  puffed  them  up  also  in  her  general  self- 
glorification.  And  in  all  her  bragging  one  could 
easily  detect  a  shade  of  reproach  against  her  family, 
her  acquaintances,  the  Hague,  because  nothing  about 
her  was  properly  valued:  not  she,  nor  her  husband, 
nor  her  house,  nor  her  furniture,  nor  her  ideas,  nor 
the  street  she  lived  in.  And  she  explained  at  great 
length  to  the  friend  or  sister  her  way  of  thinking,  of 
managing,  of  calculating,  of  bringing  up  children,  of 
furnishing,  of  giving  dinners,  of  ordering  a  dress,  as 

237 


238  SMALL   SOULS 

though  all  of  this  was  of  such  immense  interest  to 
the  friend  or  sister  that  nothing  more  immense  could 
be  imagined.  If,  thereupon,  the  friend  or  sister, 
for  the  sake  of  conversation,  in  her  turn  described 
her  own  thoughts,  or  arrangements,  or  methods  of 
entertaining,  Adolphine  was  unable  to  listen  to  a 
word  and  showed  plainly  that  the  affairs  of  the  sister 
or  friend  did  not  interest  her  in  the  least  and  that, 
for  instance,  the  quality  of  the  covering  of  her, 
Adolphine's,  chairs,  or  the  fresh  air  of  the  street 
in  which  she,  Adolphine,  lived,  or  the  velvet  of  the 
collar  of  the  great-coat  of  Van  Saetzema,  Adol- 
phine's husband,  was  of  much  greater  importance. 
For  she  wanted  the  sister  or  friend  to  realize,  above 
anything  else,  that  in  her,  Adolphine's,  life  every- 
thing was  of  the  best  and  finest  kind:  things  animate 
and  inanimate,  things  movable  and  immovable  alike. 
Adolphine's  cook,  the  sister  or  friend  was  assured, 
cooked  better  than  any  other  cook,  especially  than 
Bertha's  cook;  Adolphine's  dog,  a  pug,  was  the 
sweetest  pug  of  all  the  pugs  in  the  world.  And, 
while  she  bragged  like  this,  she  was  filled  with  a 
deep-seated  dread,  asked  herself,  almost  uncon- 
sciously : 

"  Can  my  cook  really  cook?  And  isn't  my 
pug,  if  the  truth  were  told,  an  ill-tempered  little 
brute?" 

But  these  were  deeply-hidden  doubts;  and,  to  her 
family  and  friends,  Adolphine  boasted  loudly  of  all 
and  everything  that  belonged  to  her  and  insisted 
upon  an  admiring  appreciation  of  her  children  and 


SMALL    SOULS  239 

furniture.  It  was  part  of  her  nature  to  want  to  be 
high-placed — she  was  her  father's  child — to  be  rich, 
to  have  everything  fine  and  imposing  and  distin- 
guished about  her;  and  it  was  as  though  fate  had 
compelled  her,  from  a  child,  to  have  everything  a 
little,  a  trifle  less  good  than  her  family  and  friends. 
In  reality,  she  was  never  satisfied,  for  all  her  boast- 
ing. In  reality,  she  reproached  life  with  its  horri- 
ble injustice.  As  a  child,  she  was  a  plain,  unattrac- 
tive girl,  whereas  Bertha  was  at  least  passable  and 
Constance  was  decidedly  pretty.  That  Dorine  was 
not  pretty  either  did  not  console  her;  she  did  not 
even  notice  it.  Both  Bertha  and  Constance  had  been 
presented  at  Court,  one  as  a  young  woman,  the 
other  as  a  mere  girl.  After  Constance'  marriage, 
however,  her  father  and  mother  had  conceived  a 
sort  of  weariness  of  society;  and,  whenever  Mamma 
did  suggest  that  it  was  perhaps  time  for  Adolphine 
to  be  presented  too,  Papa  used  to  say: 

"  Oh,  what  good  has  it  done  the  others?  " 
And,  for  one  reason  or  another,  Adolphine  had 
never  been  presented.  She  never  forgave  her  par- 
ents, nor,  for  that  matter,  her  sisters ;  but  she  always 
said  that  she  did  not  care  in  the  least  for  all  that  fuss 
about  the  Court.  She  was  married  early,  at  twenty; 
she  accepted  Van  Saetzema  almost  for  fear  lest  life 
should  show  itself  unjust  once  more  if  she  refused 
him.  And  Van  Saetzema  had  proposed  to  her,  even 
as  hundreds  of  men  propose  to  hundreds  of  women, 
for  one  or  other  of  those  very  small  reasons  of 
small  people  which  work  like  tiny  wheels  in  small 


240  SMALL    SOULS 

souls  and  which  others  are  not  able  to  understand, 
so  that  they  ask  themselves  in  amazement: 

"  Why  on  earth  did  So-and-so  do  this  or  that ; 
why  did  this  or  that  happen  to  So-and-so;  why  did 
So-and-so  marry  So-and-so?  .  .  ." 

Van  Saetzema  had  a  fine-sounding  name,  was  a 
doctor  of  laws,  had  a  little  money:  Adolphine  had 
risked  it.  But,  while  Van  Naghel,  after  practising 
at  the  bar  in  India,  was  making  his  way  through  in- 
terest, through  his  political  tact,  through  the  influ- 
ence of  Papa  van  Lowe,  who  liked  him,  while  Van 
Naghel  was  placed  on  all  sorts  of  committees,  each 
of  which  raised  him  one  rung  higher  in  the  official 
world  of  the  Hague,  until  he  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  Second  Chamber  and  at  last  entered  the  Cab- 
inet as  colonial  secretary,  Van  Saetzema  remained 
quietly  jogging  on  at  the  Ministry  of  Justice,  with- 
out ever  obtaining  any  special  promotion,  without 
ever  receiving  any  special  opportunity,  without  being 
pushed  on  much  by  Papa  van  Lowe,  just  as  though 
Papa,  with  a  sort  of  step-fatherly  disdain,  had 
thought  this  as  little  worth  while  as  having  Adolphine 
presented  at  Court.  Van  Saetzema  was  now  chief 
clerk,  was  a  respected  public  servant,  performing 
his  work  accurately  and  well  and  even  valued  by  the 
secretary-general;  but  there  it  ended.  And  this  was 
the  despair  of  Adolphine,  who,  ever  since  Van 
Naghel  had  become  a  minister,  wanted  to  see  her 
husband  a  minister  too,  a  hope  which  there  was  not 
the  least  prospect  of  ever  realizing.  And  so  Adol- 
phine had  to  look  on  at  all  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha's 


SMALL    SOULS  241 

distinction  with  envious  eyes;  and,  however  much 
she  might  boast  of  everything  that  belonged  to  her, 
that  distinction,  which  she  would  never  achieve,  re- 
mained a  torture  to  her  vanity.  It  had  come  of 
itself,  in  the  course  of  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha's  life 
— through  Papa's  patronage,  through  Van  Naghel's 
own  connections  and  his  Overijssel  family,  which 
had  always  played  a  part  in  the  political  history  of 
the  country — it  had  come  of  itself  that  not  only  had 
Van  Naghel  attained  a  high  level  in  his  career,  but 
his  house  had  become  a  political  and  also  an  aristo- 
cratic salon  at  the  Hague,  as  though,  through  their 
respective  connections,  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha, 
after  Papa  van  Lowe's  death,  had  continued  the  tra- 
dition which,  after  the  viceregal  period,  had  prevailed 
in  the  Alexanderstraat,  where  Mamma  was  now  left 
peacefully  leading  her  after-life  as  an  old  woman 
and  a  widow.  On  the  other  hand,  Adolphine's 
house,  in  spite  of  all  her  wishes  and  endeavours,  had 
never  been  anything  more  than  an  omnium-gatherum, 
a  rubbish  heap.  She  lacked  tact  and  the  gift  of  dis- 
crimination. She  thought  that  for  her  too  to  have 
a  busy  house  would  give  her  something  of  Bertha's 
importance  and  distinction;  and  so  she  paid  visits 
right  and  left  and  had  a  multitude  of  incongruous 
acquaintances,  all  belonging  to  different  sets:  the 
orthodox  set;  the  Indian  set;  the  official  set;  the  mili- 
tary set;  but  not,  alas,  the  Court  set  nor  the  leaven 
of  aristocracy  which,  after  Papa's  death,  at  first 
used  to  leave  a  card,  once  a  year  or  so,  but  had  grad- 
ually dropped  her.  And  so  it  had  come  of  itself, 


242  SMALL    SOULS 

in  the  course  of  their,  Van  Saetzema  and  Adol- 
phine's,  life,  that  their  house  had  become  an  ever- 
increasing  omnium-gatherum :  a  busy  house,  it  is  true, 
where  they  "  saw  people,"  but  a  nondescript  house, 
where  one  never  knew  whom  one  would  meet  nor 
what  the  hostess  was  really  aiming  at.  There  was 
something  maddening  about  Adolphine's  way  of 
turning  her  house  into  a  busy  house,  crammed  with 
people.  She  would  propose,  for  instance,  to  give 
a  small  dinner  five  days  later;  she  would  ask  eight 
people,  but  remember,  two  days  before  the  dinner, 
that  she  might  as  well  ask  a  few  more;  then  she 
would  send  round  a  few  quite  formal  invitations, 
couched  in  terms  which  were  out  of  keeping  with  the 
interval  between  the  date  of  the  invitation  and  the 
date  of  the  dinner,  with  the  result  that,  first  of  all, 
she  utterly  put  out  the  hired  chef;  that  sometimes 
there  was  a  bottle  of  champagne  short;  and  that  her 
guests  invariably  appeared  in  every  possible  grada- 
tion of  evening-dress.  Or,  else,  she  thought  of  giv- 
ing a  big  dinner,  received  a  number  of  refusals,  did 
not  know  whom  to  invite  instead,  asked  people  in- 
formally, or  even  by  word  of  mouth,  and  found  her- 
self entertaining  half-a-dozen  guests  with  a  super- 
abundance of  dishes  and  wine,  while  once  again  the 
men  were  dressed,  one  in  a  swallow-tail  coat  and 
white  tie,  the  other  in  a  morning-coat;  the  ladies, 
one  in  a  low-necked  bodice,  the  other  in  a  blouse: 
a  disparity  that  was  constantly  giving  them  fresh 
shocks  of  dismay. 

It  was  always  a  medley;  and,  even  as  she  lacked 


SMALL   SOULS  243 

the  tact  to  give  a  successful  dinner,  she  was  doomed 
to  lack  the  tact  to  achieve  the  distinction  for  which 
she  craved.  Her  very  husband  thwarted  her :  a  sim- 
ple man,  a  little  boorish  in  his  ways,  who  trudged 
daily  to  his  office  and  back,  conscientious  about  his 
work  like  a  schoolboy  finishing  his  exercises  and  de- 
void of  any  particular  ability  or  political  adroitness. 
He  approved  of  what  Adolphine  did,  but  could  not 
understand  that  craving,  that  vital  need  of  hers  for 
distinction.  It  was  true  that  he  had  caught  from  his 
wife  that  exuberant  satisfaction  with  his  wife,  his 
house,  his  children,  his  furniture  and  his  friends. 
He  too  knew  how  to  boast  of  his  coat,  his  office, 
even  his  minister,  his  secretary-general.  But  Adol- 
phine might  have  stood  behind  him  with  a  whip  and 
would  still  have  urged  him  to  the  summits  of  earthly 
and  Haguish  greatness.  He  was  ponderous,  fog- 
brained,  a  man  who  worked  by  rote,  who  went  his 
way  like  a  draught-ox,  year  in,  year  out,  with  the 
same  heavy  tread  of  a  Dutch  steer  under  heavy 
Dutch  skies:  he  bore  within  him  the  natural  instinct 
to  be  an  inferior,  an  underling,  to  remain  in  the 
background  and  there  to  go  on  working  in  an  ac- 
curate, small-souled,  worthy  fashion,  in  the  little 
groove  in  which  he  had  first  started. 

They  had  three  boys  and  three  girls  and  they 
were  not  bad  parents.  They,  both  of  them,  loved 
their  children  and  thought  of  their  children's  wel- 
fare. But  they  knew  as  little  of  a  system  of  educa- 
tion as  of  a  system  of  dinner-giving;  and  such  educa- 
tion as  existed  in  their  house  was  as  ramshackle  as 


244  SMALL    SOULS 

their  friends,  their  rooms,  their  tables.  It  was  es- 
pecially where  her  children  were  concerned  that  Adol- 
phine  had  that  mania  for  having  and  doing 
everything  in  a  very  imposing  fashion,  a  fashion  at 
least  as  imposing  as  that  in  which  Bertha  had  and 
did  things  for  hers.  As  Adolphine,  however,  was 
the  only  one  of  the  Van  Lowes  who  was,  by  excep- 
tion, thrifty,  her  thrift  often  waged  a  severe  strug- 
gle with  her  yearning  for  what  was  imposing.  And 
so,  whereas  everything  relating  to  the  Van  Naghels' 
household  and  the  education  of  their  children  was 
conducted,  as  a  matter  of  course,  on  the  most  ex- 
pensive lines,  which  they  both  recognized  as  expen- 
sive, but  which  their  tastes  and  their  manner  of  life 
made  it  impossible  to  alter,  everything  at  Adolphine's 
was  done  cheaply.  And  so,  whereas  Louise  and 
Emilie  and  Marianne  had  been  to  expensive  board- 
ing-schools near  London  and  Paris — great  country- 
houses,  where  the  daughters  of  wealthy  men  re- 
ceived a  fashionable  education,  with  dancing-lessons 
in  ball-dresses,  drawing-,  painting-  and  music-lessons 
given  by  well-known  masters — Adolphine,  though 
inwardly  eaten  up  with  jealousy,  pronounced  those 
boarding-schools  simply  absurd  and  quite  beyond 
her  means  and  discovered  one  near  Cleves,  to  which 
she  sent  Floortje  and  Caroline:  a  very  respectable 
establishment,  but  one  where  German  shopkeepers' 
daughters  were  taken  in  and  where  a  very  different 
tone  prevailed  from  that  of  the  aristocratic  schools 
near  Paris  and  London.  This,  however,  did  not 
prevent  Adolphine  from  extolling  her  boarding- 


SMALL   SOULS  245 

school  as  far  above  those  silly,  frivolous  institutions 
to  which  Bertha  had  sent  her  children.  And,  as  re- 
gards the  boys,  Adolphine  magnified  her  three  boys, 
Piet,  Chris  and  Jaap:  the  eldest  was  to  enter  the 
East-Indian  civil  service;  the  two  others  were  in- 
tended for  Breda  and  Willemsoord,  which  was  bet- 
ter than  those  two  spendthrift  Leiden  students,  who 
were  at  it  again,  wanting  some  thousands  of  guilders 
for  their  approaching  masques,  and  far  better  than 
that  lazy  lout  of  a  Karel. 

Also,  Adolphine  was  always  drawing  comparisons 
between  her  Marietje,  a  gentle,  fair,  white-skinned 
little  girl,  a  bit  subdued  amid  the  blatancy  of  the 
others,  and  Bertha's  Marietje:  comparisons  invaria- 
bly in  her  own  child's  favour;  but  now,  after  Emilie's 
wedding  with  Van  Raven,  she  drew  comparisons 
more  particularly  between  Emilie's  wedding-prepa- 
rations and  all  that  she,  Adolphine,  was  doing  for 
Floortje  and  Dijkerhof.  And  brag  and  boast  as 
she  might,  she,  the  exception  among  the  Van  Lowes, 
the  thrifty  Adolphine,  who  counted  every  twopenny- 
bit — where  did  she  get  those  economical  ideas  from? 
Mamma  van  Lowe  would  sometimes  ask  herself — 
was  unable  to  come  within  hailing-distance  of  what 
Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  and  the  Van  Ravens  and 
their  friends  on  both  sides  had  done;  she  thought 
it  absurd,  she  thought  it  flinging  money  away,  she 
grumbled  to  herself  that  everything  had  gone  up  so 
terribly  in  price:  a  deep-rooted  prudence — an  ata- 
vistic quality,  a  mysterious  throw-back — disapproved 
of  that  luxury  of  parties,  trousseaus,  presents,  flow- 


246  SMALL   SOULS 

ers  with  which  Emilie's  wedding-days  had  glittered; 
she  thought  it  ridiculous,  she  wanted  to  do  every- 
thing more  economically  and  yet  she  did  not  like 
doing  everything  so  economically;  and  so  there  was 
an  incessant  struggle,  both  with  herself  and  with 
Floortje,  who  also  did  not  wish  to  be  second  to 
Emilie  and  who  gave  no  thought  to  money:  it  was 
only  her  parents'  money!  But  still,  with  her  pe- 
culiar gift  of  self-glorification,  Adolphine  was  now 
able  to  praise  Floortje's  trousseau  to  Cateau  above 
all  those  lace  fripperies  of  Emilie's. 

"  Much  ni-cer  and  more  last-ing,  /  think,  Adolph- 
ine !  "  whined  Cateau. 

"Yes;  and  just  look  at  those  chemises,  look  at 
those  table-cloths  and  napkins:  there's  quality  there, 
you  can't  beat  it,"  said  Adolphine,  patting  the  stacks 
of  linen  in  the  cupboard.  "  And  all  those  silly  pres- 
ents which  Emilie  had,  all  that  silver,  which  she  can't 
use:  what  do  young  people,  who  of  course  won't  be 
seeing  people  for  the  first  few  years,  want  with  so 
much  silver?  I'm  very  glad  that  our  friends  have 
been  more  practical  in  choosing  their  presents  for 
Floortje:  /  shouldn't  have  been  at  all  pleased  if 
Floortje  had  been  set  up  in  her  silver-cupboard  by 
people  whom  you  may  call  acquaintances,  if  you  like, 
but  who,  after  all,  are  strangers." 

"  Ye-e-es,"  whined  Cateau.  "  At  Emilie-tje's  re- 
ception, it  looked  just  like  Van  Kern-pen's  shop.  I 
thought  it  so  vul-gar  and  com-mon,  didn't  you, 
Adolph-ine?" 

The  epithets  were  not  exceptionally  well-chosen 


SMALL    SOULS  247 

as  applied  to  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha — even  Adol- 
phine  could  see  that — but  she  admired  her  own  pur- 
chases and  her  friends'  presents  too  greatly  to  say 
so  to  Cateau. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CONSTANCE  made  it  a  duty  to  go  often  to  Adol- 
phine's  during  Floortje's  wedding-preliminaries. 
She  went  out  of  her  way  to  be  cordial;  she  sent  a 
beautiful  basket  of  flowers  on  the  day  of  the  con- 
tract; she  gave  a  handsome  present,  much  more  ex- 
pensive than  the  one  which  she  had  sent  Emilie;  and 
she  showed  great  interest  in  the  party  and  the  din- 
ner that  were  to  be  given  at  the  Witte  Brug.  She 
examined  attentively  the  open  presses  with  the  stacks 
of  linen  composing  Floortje's  trousseau — "  Just  look 
at  those  chemises;  and  those  table-cloths  and  nap- 
kins: there's  quality  there,  you  can't  beat  it.  Just 
feel  them,  only  feel  them!  Whereas  those  frip- 
peries of  Emilie's  .  .  . !  " — and  listened  attentively 
to  the  endless  paeans  of  self-glorification,  spent  her- 
self in  admiration,  was  determined  to  flatter  Adol- 
phine  and  to  make  a  good  impression  on  her  sister. 
Because,  during  those  days,  she  had  conscientiously 
set  herself  the  task  of  winning  over  Adolphine,  she 
swallowed  the  criticism  that  was  never  wanting,  lit- 
tle spiteful  arrows  shot  off  in  between  the  paeans: 

"  How  pale  you're  looking !  Have  you  been  using 
too  much  powder  again,  or  aren't  you  well?  .  .  . 
What  a  pity  that  your  boy  is  such  an  old  gentleman, 
Constance !  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Constance :  your  father- 
and  mother-in-law  were  not  very  nice  to  you,  were 
they?  .  .  .  Constance,  are  those  rings  of  yours 


SMALL   SOULS  249 

real?  .  .  .  Oh,  really?  Upon  my  word,  I  thought 
one  of  those  stones  was  paste.  .  .  ." 

She  swallowed  it  all,  accepted  the  affront  with  a 
gentle  smile,  a  word  of  almost  assenting  reply: 

"  Yes,  Addie  is  rather  old-fashioned.  .  .  .  Oh, 
it  was  very  difficult  for  Papa  and  Mamma  van  der 
Welcke.  .  .  .  You  are  right,  that  stone  is  a  little 
dull  sometimes.  ..." 

She  swallowed  it,  took  it  all  so  gently  and  so  sub- 
missively that  Addie,- when  he  happened  to  be  pres- 
ent, looked  up  at  his  mother  in  surprise,  thinking  her 
so  different  from  the  woman  whom  he  knew,  who 
blazed  out  for  -the  least  thing  at  Papa  and  who  al- 
ways behaved  towards  himself  as  the  spoilt  little 
•mother  who  wanted  to  be  petted  and  loved  by  her 
boy.  And  the  lad,  in  his  small,  bright,  earnest, 
doughty  soul,  felt  a  sort  of  amazement  at  that  puzzle 
of  a  woman's  soul  that  was  his  mother's: 

"  Are  they  all  like  that,  so  queer?  Or  is  it  only 
Mamma?  And  why  is  she  so  forbearing  towards 
Aunt  Adolphine,  when  she  can't  bear  the  least  thing 
from  Papa?  " 

This  made  him  still  more  of  a  little  man  towards 
his  mother,  with  something  protecting  and  conde- 
scendinjg,  because  she  was  so  weak  and  irresolute  and 
excitable,  but  also  with  very  much  that  was  affec- 
tionate, because  that  strange  womanliness  possessed 
a  charm  for  his  small  male  soul. 

Adolphine,  however,  on  the  day  when  the  con- 
tract was  signed,  at  the  big  family-dinner  at  the 
Witte  Brug  and  the  subsequent  evening-party  for  all 


250  SMALL    SOULS 

the  friends  and  relations,  boasted  aloud  in  her  self- 
complacency.  She  bragged  to  Uncle  Ruyvenaer,  to 
Karel  and  Cateau,  to  Constance,  to  Gerrit  and  Ade- 
line: those  were  fine  rooms,  the  rooms  of  the  Witte 
Brug,  much  finer  than  the  rooms  in  the  Doelen; 
that  was  a  splendid  dinner,  the  dfnner  which  she  had 
given:  it  cost  a  lot  of  money,  though,  and  she  told 
how  much,  but  added  a  couple  of  hundred  guilders 
to  the  cost;  and  did  they  remember  that  impossible 
dinner  of  Bertha's,  at  Emilie's  wedding,  and  the 
queer  dishes  that  had  been  set  before  them?  Wasn't 
it  a  splendid  dessert,  with  beautiful  strawberries, 
which  she  had  given?  And  so  many  and  at  this 
season,  too:  but  you  had  to  pay  for  them!  And 
how  gay  they  had  been  at  table,  her  family — as 
though  that  same  family  were  not  also  Bertha's 
family — and  her  friends :  so  very  different  from  that 
pretentious  set  of  Bertha's!  There  was  such  a  gay, 
spontaneous  tone  in  the  speeches  and  the  conversa- 
tion; and  did  Gerrit  remember  that  deathly  stillness 
at  table  at  Emilietje's  dinner?  Such  nice  people, 
Dijkerhof's  parents,  her  girl's  future  father-  and 
mother-in-law.  .  .  .  And  how  well  Floortje  looked, 
didn't  she?  And  the  other  girls  were  prettily 
dressed  too.  She  boasted  so  breathlessly  of  every- 
thing, of  every  detail,  that  neither  Uncle  nor  Gerrit 
had  a  single  opportunity  of  expressing  their  appre- 
ciation, of  giving  voice  to  their  admiration;  and  it 
was  not  until  she  had  passed  on,  boasting  right  and 
left  to  her  acquaintances — "  Well,  what  do  you  say 
to  my  dinner?  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  my  party? 


SMALL   SOULS  251 

Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  dress?  " — that  Uncle 
Ruyvenaer  said: 

"  Any  one  would  think  that  Adolphine  had  built 
the  Witte  Brug  herself!  " 

"  I  think,"  whined  Cateau,  "  Adolph-ine  oughtn't 
to  say  all  those  things  her-self,  don't  you,  Ger-rit?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Gerrit,  "  it's  a  delightful  feeling  to 
'  be  so  pleased  with  your  own  self  and  your  own  chil- 
dren and  your  own  dinner.     But,  if  you  think  as  you 
do,   Cateau,  why  didn't  you  compliment  her  your- 
self?" 

"  Be-cause  I  think,"  whined  Cateau,  whining  worse 
than  usual,  "  that  that  dress  doesn't  look  at  all  smart 
on  Adolph-ine.  What  do  you  think,  A-deline?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Adeline,  good-natur- 
edly. 

"  Con-stance,  you  have  such  very  good  taste:  do 
tell  me,  do  you  think  that  dress  looks  smart?  " 

"  I  think  Adolphine  looks  exceedingly  well  to- 
night," said  Constance,  irritably. 

"  I  say,  Sissy,  you  can't  mean  that!  "  said  Gerrit. 

"  And,  even  if  you  don't  think  so,  Gerrit,  it's  not 
nice  of  you  to  speak  like  that  of  your  sister!  " 

"  Oh,  well,  a  little  criticism  !  .  .  ." 
'  Yes,  but  to  be  always  criticizing  one  another  is 
horrid,  I  think,"  said  Constance,  angrily. 

"  I'm  bound  to  say,  though,  that  I  think  it  a  ram- 
shackle party,"  said  Uncle  Ruyvenaer.  "  Who  on 
earth  are  all  these  people?"  he  continued,  putting 
on  dignity,  disdainfully.  "  I  say,  Toetie,  are  you 
enjoying  yourself?" 


252  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Yes,  Papa,  awfully!  "  said  Toetie,  as  she  passed 
on  her  partner's  arm. 

The  Ruyvenaer  girls,  though  no  longer  young, 
always  enjoyed  themselves  "  awfully,"  not  caring 
whether  it  was  at  Bertha's  or  Adolphine's.  Good- 
natured,  kindly,  simply  and  pleasantly  Indian  in  their 
ways,  they  loved  dancing,  they  always  enjoyed  them- 
selves "  awfully." 

"  And,  Dotje,  what  do  you  think  of  my  party?  " 

"  Oh,  Adolphine,  so  jolly  your  party:  I'm  enjoy- 
ing it  awfully." 

And  Dot  also  shone  with  gratitude  and  perspira- 
tion after  dancing. 

"Are  those  the  Dijkerhofs'  friends?"  asked 
Mamma  van  Lowe,  in  a  whisper,  of  Bertha,  glancing 
towards  a  gentleman  and  a  lady  who  had  been  in- 
troduced to  her,  but  whose  name  she  had  not  caught. 
"  What  strange  friends  those  Dijkerhofs  have  I 
Such  obscure  people :  one  never  knows  who  they  are 
or  what  they  arel  Very  vulgar  people,  /  think. 
It's  such  a  pity,  Bertha,  isn't  it?  Dijkerhof  him- 
self is  not  bad;  and,  if  Floortje  is  fond  of  him,  well, 
I  suppose  it  will  be  all  right;  but  I  must  admit  I  am 
sorry  that  Adolphine  is  mixed  up  with  this  lot.  .  .  . 
And  those  people  over  there,  Bertha,  the  stout  man 
and  the  tall  woman  with  whom  Adeline  is  talking 
so  familiarly:  are  those  intimate  friends?  What 
curious  friends  she  has!  ...  It  must  strike  Con- 
stance too,  now  that  she's  come  back  to  it  all.  At 
our  house  there  was  a  certain  harmony,  a  set,  as 
there  is  in  your  house  now,  Bertha.  But,  at  Adol- 


SMALL   SOULS  253 

phine's,  it's  always  such  a  queer  lot,  such  a  queer 
lot!  I  can't  call  it  anything  else.  Goodness  gra- 
cious, what  a  number  of  curious  people !  " 

"  Mamma,"  said  Paul,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
this  menagerie  of  Adolphine's?  " 

"  Oh,  Paul,"  sighed  the  old  lady,  a  little  nerv- 
ously, "  I  was  just  saying  to  Bertha  .  .  .  But  we 
mustn't  let  any  one  else  notice  what  we  think.  .  .  ." 

"  I  say,  Mamma,"  asked  Gerrit,  "  do  you  know 
who  those  two  are?  " 

"  No,  Gerrit.  Van  Naghel,  do  you  know  who 
those  two  people  are :  that  stout  gentleman  and  that 
tall  lady?" 

"  Yes,  Mamma :  it's  Bruys  and  his  wife.  He's 
the  editor  of  the  Fonograaf;  very  respectable  peo- 
ple, Mamma.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Van  Naghel  I  .  .  ." 

Utterly  perplexed,  the  old  lady  passed  on,  leaning 
on  Van  Naghel's  arm.  .  .  . 

Constance  had  overheard  the  comments  of  the 
family  upon  Adolphine's  friends.  She  herself,  new- 
comer that  she  now  was  in  Hague  society,  was  not 
so  greatly  struck  by  the  fact  that  Adolphine's  guests 
consisted  of  all  sorts  of  dissimilar  elements:  she  had 
sometimes  at  Rome  had  to  suffer  incongruous  ele- 
ments at  her  big  receptions  and  she  had  often  found, 
abroad,  that  it  was  possible  for  witty,  polished,  cul- 
tured people  to  exist,  even  though  they  did  not  be- 
long to  her  set.  Then  again  she  considered  that,  at 
a  wedding-party,  which  was  attended  by  relations' 
relations  and  friends'  friends,  it  was  almost  inevita- 


254  SMALL    SOULS 

ble  that  the  guests  were  sometimes  entirely  unknown 
to  one  another:  wasn't  it  the  same  at  Bertha's  party? 
Yes,  Bertha  had  given  two  evening-parties,  in  order 
to  separate  the  elements;  but  hadn't  the  family  found 
fault  with  this?  Was  there  nothing  but  fault-find- 
ing and  criticizing  in  the  family;  and  did  none  think 
right  what  another  did?  Gerrit  and  Paul  were  now 
sitting  beside  her;  and  she  heard  them  talking,  con- 
demning, criticizing,  ridiculing. 

"  Poor,  dear  Mother:  she's  quite  bewildered!  " 

"  I  say,  Paul,  are  you  allowing  yourself  to  be  in- 
troduced to  Dijkerhof's  uncles  and  aunts?" 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  introduced  to  another  soul," 
said  Paul,  wearily  blinking  his  eyes.  "  I'm  here  to 
make  studies.  The  only  way  to  amuse  yourself  in 
a  Noah's  ark  like  this  party  of  Adolphine's  is  to 
make  studies  of  the  animal  side  of  mankind.  Look 
at  Mrs.  Bruys  eating  her  cake  with  an  almost  animal 
satisfaction.  Look  at  that  uncle  of  Dijkerhof's 
dancing  with  Van  Saetzema's  cousin :  it's  almost  dis- 
gusting." 

"  Paul,"  said  Constance,  "  I've  known  you  wittier 
than  you  are  to-night." 

"  My  dear  sister,  I  feel  myself  growing  dull  here. 
The  figures  and  colours  swarm  before  my  eyes  so 
hideously  as  really  to  cause  me  physical  pain.  My 
God,  the  charm  of  our  modern  life,  the  charm  at  an 
evening-party  of  Adolphine's :  where  is  it,  where  is 
it?" 

"It's  gone,  it's  gone!  "  Gerrit  noisily  declaimed. 
"  Adolphine's  charm  is  gone!  " 


SMALL    SOULS  255 

"  I  don't  think  either  of  you  at  all  nice !  "  Con- 
stance broke  in,  irritably.  '  Tell  me,  my  dear 
brothers,  is  this  irony,  this  fault-finding  tone,  usual 
among  us?  Has  it  become  a  custom  for  the  broth- 
ers and  sisters  to  carp  and  cavil  at  one  another — 
and  even  for  Mamma  to  cavil  at  her  children — as 
I  have  heard  you  all  do  to-night?  Does  each  of  us 
criticize  the  other  in  a  general  cross-fire  of  criticism? 
I  heard  something  of  the  kind  at  Bertha's  party;  but 
is  there  really  nothing  good  here  to-night?  I  feel 
bound  to  tell  you  I  think  you  very  petty,  provincial, 
narrow-minded  and  cliquey:  even  you,  Paul,  for  all 
your  philosophy!  You,  Gerrit,  are  afraid  of  de- 
meaning yourself  by  allowing  yourself  to  be  intro- 
duced to  a  few  of  Dijkerhof's  uncles  and  aunts,  whom 
perhaps  you  won't  see  three  times  again  as  long  as 
you  live;  and,  as  for  you,  Paul,  why  are  you  so  spite- 
ful in  your  comments  on  absolute  strangers  who  don't 
eat  a  cake  in  the  exact  way  which  you  approve  of? 
I  think  Uncle  Ruyvenaer  ridiculous :  he's  not  partic- 
ularly well-bred  himself  and  he  sneers  at  the  breed- 
ing of  Van  Saetzema's  friends;  I  think  Cateau  ridicu- 
lous: she  hasn't  the  faintest  pretensions  to  smartness, 
though  her  clothes  may  be  good  and  substantial,  and 
she  criticizes  Adolphine's  smartness.  .  .  ." 

"  O  dear,  gentle  soul !  "  said  Paul,  affectedly,  and 
took  Constance'  hand.  "  O  proud  and  noble  one ! 
O  heroine  in  a  sacred  cause!  You  are  a  revelation 
to  me !  How  broad  are  the  principles  which 
you  proclaim,  how  great  your  tolerance!  It  is 
terrible !  Only  you,  you  dear,  gentle  soul,  are  not 


256  SMALL    SOULS 

so  sparing  of  the  criticism  which  you  criticize  in 
us." 

'  Very  well,  I  criticized  you,  for  once;  but  you're 
criticizing  others  everlastingly." 

"  No,  not  quite;  but  we're  only  very  small  people 
and  we  think  it  fun  to  pass  remarks  on  others,"  said 
Gerrit. 

"  I  am  a  very  small  person,  like  yourselves.  I 
have  never  met  big  people,  in  '  our  set,'  "  said  Con- 
stance, with  a  sneer.  "  What  is  any  one  in  our  set 
but  small?" 

"Good!"  said  Paul.  "Well  done!  You  got 
that  from  me.  But  proceed,  my  fond  disciple !  " 

"I  am  frightened!"  said  Constance,  earnestly. 
"  You  think  I  am  only  just  exciting  myself  a  little, 
but  I'm  frightened,  I'm  simply  frightened.  I  hear 
so  much  criticism  from  the  mouths  of  my  relations 
on  every  side,  criticism  on  a  dress,  on  an  evening- 
party,  on  a  couple  of  utter  strangers  who  happen 
to  be  friends  of  my  sister's,  that  I  am  frightened  of 
the  criticism  of  my  relations  concerning  myself,  my- 
self in  whom  there  is  so  much  to  criticize." 

"Come,  Sis!"  said  Gerrit,  good-naturedly,  rest- 
lessly stretching  out  his  long  legs. 

"  Mayn't  I  speak  out  my  mind,  to  my  brothers?  " 
asked  Constance.  "  Have  I  come  back  to  the  Hague 
and  to  all  of  you,  after  being  away  for  years,  to 
behave  as  though  nothing  had  happened  to  separate 
me  from  all  of  you  who  are  dear  to  me?  " 

"  O  tender  one !  "  said  Paul.  "  Hearken  unto 
the  words  of  wisdom  of  your  younger  brother! 


SMALL   SOULS  257 

You're  afraid  of  criticism,  because  you  fear  that, 
where  so  much  criticism  is  passed,  ift  such  a  hot-bed 
of  criticism  as  our  family,  you  yourself  will  not  es- 
cape a  severe  judgment.  But  let  me  tell  you  now 
that  you  don't  know  humanity,  the  humanity  of  small 
people.  Small  people  criticize — because  they  think 
it  fun,  as  Gerrit  says — criticize  a  dress,  or  an  evening- 
party,  but  they  never  criticize  life.  To  begin  with, 
they're  afraid  to:  small  people  are  interested  only 
in  what  is  not  serious,  in  what  is  really  not  worth 
while." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Constance.  "  That's 
a  clever  phrase,  Paul,  and  nothing  more.  I  am  be- 
coming distrustful.  When  I  hear  so  much  criticiz- 
ing— even  from  Mamma — on  Adolphine,  I  ask  my- 
self, '  What  will  my  mother,  what  will  my  brothers 
and  sisters  find  to  say  of  me?  .  .  .'  Oh,  perhaps  it 
can't  be  helped;  perhaps  everything  is  insincere,  in 
our  set!  " 

"  But  not  in  our  family,"  said  Gerrit. 
'  You  say  that,  Gerrit,  with  a  nice  sound  in  your 
voice." 

"  The  captain  of  hussars  with  the  nice  sound  in 
his  voice !  "  said  Paul. 

1  You  silly  boy!  Be  serious  for  a  moment,  if  you 
can !  I  am  frightened,  I  am  frightened.  Honestly, 
it  makes  me  nervous.  Perhaps  I  did  wrong,  per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  have  come  back  here,  to  the 
Hague,  among  all  of  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  so  disappointed  in  your  brothers  and 
sisters?  "  asked  Gerrit. 


258  SMALL  SOULS 

"  I  am  not  complaining  on  my  own  behalf  now,  I 
am  complaining  on  behalf  of  Adolphine.  I  think 
you  others  are  not  tolerant  enough  of  anything  that 
does  not  appeal  to  your  taste.  That's  all.  I  am 
not  complaining  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  You  have 
all  received  me  very  nicely;  only,  I  am  frightened. 
I'm  frightened,  I'm  frightened.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  is 
it  possible  that  there  should  be  a  strong  family-feel- 
ing, a  mutual  kindliness,  when  the  daily  criticism  is 
so  inexorable?  " 

"  The  daily  criticism  in  the  family :  what  a  good 
title  for  an  essay!  " 

"  Paul,  do  be  serious !  " 

"  My  dear  Connie,  you  know  I  can't.  Alas,  I  can 
only  be  serious  when  I  am  holding  forth  myself!  " 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  let  you  talk.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  generous  of  you.  My  Connie,  you  must 
remember  this — it's  a  cruel  law  in  our  social  life — 
that  parents  care  much  for  their  children,  but  chil- 
dren less  for  their  parents;  that  the  family-bonds 
become  still  looser  between  brothers  and  sisters;  and 
that  those  bonds  gradually  become  wholly  loosened 
between  uncles  and  aunts  and  nephews  and  nieces  and 
cousins.  Family-life  may  have  existed  in  the  days 
of  the  old  patriarchs,  who  went  into  the  wilderness 
with  sons  and  daughters  and  herds,  but  it  has  ceased 
to  exist  in  our  modern  days.  At  Gerrit's,  although 
he  has  no  herds,  a  little  bit  of  it  may  still  exist,  be- 
cause his  children  are  very  many  and  very  small. 
But,  when  children  are  a  little  bigger,  they  want  to 


SMALL    SOULS  259 

stretch  their  wings;  and  then  the  family-bonds  get 
loosened.  If  children  marry,  then  each  child  has 
his  own  family — for  so  long  as  it  lasts — and  his  own 
interests;  and  the  bonds  that  bound  together  the 
patriarchal  family  of  the  desert  flap  lightly  in  the 
wind.  Now  how  can  you  expect  criticism,  the  great- 
est and  cheapest  '  fun '  that  man  can  have  at  his 
fellow-man's  expense,  not  to  be  directed  at  relations, 
when  the  word  '  relation  '  is  really  only  a  synonym 
for  '  stranger  '  ?  There  is  no  such  thing  as  the  fam- 
ily in  modern  society.  Each  man  is  himself.  But  in 
natures  such  as  yours  and  Mamma's  there  remains 
something  nice  and  atavistic  that  belongs  to  the 
patriarchal  family  of  the  desert:  you  would  like  to 
see  the  family  exist,  with  family-love,  love  of  par- 
ents for  children  and  children  for  parents,  of  brothers 
and  sisters  and  even  nephews  and  nieces  and  uncles 
and  aunts  and  cousins.  Mamma,  who  has  a  simple 
nature,  has  instituted,  for  the  satisfying  of  that  feel- 
ing, a  weekly  evening  at  which  we,  who  are  related 
by  blood  but  not  by  interest,  meet  out  of  deference 
for  an  old  woman  whom  we  do  not  want  to  grieve, 
whom  we  wish  to  leave  in  her  illusion.  You,  my 
noble,  gentle  one,  with  your  more  complex  charac- 
ter, feel  a  more  powerful  yearning  for  the  old  pa- 
triarchal life  of  the  desert,  especially  after  the  sor- 
row and  loneliness  which  you  have  known  in  your 
life.  And  you  come  to  the  Hague,  with  your  pas- 
toral ideas,  to  find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  polished 
cannibals,  who  rend  one  another  daily  into  tiny  pieces 


260  SMALL  SOULS 

and  eat  one  another  up  with  their  family-criticism. 
That  your  gentle  nature  should  be  shocked  at  the 
spectacle  was  only  to  be  expected." 

"  So  we  are  all  strangers  to  one  another,"  said 
Constance;  and  a  chilly  feeling  passed  over  her,  a 
melancholy  rose  within  her  at  the  sound  of  those 
words  of  Paul's,  half  banter,  half  earnest.  "  We 
are  strangers  to  one  another.  That  feeling  which  I 
felt  to  be  deep  and  true  within  myself,  when  I  was 
abroad,  and  which  drove  me  back  to  my  family  and 
my  country  is  what  you  call  atavistic  and  has  no 
reason  for  existence,  since  we  no  longer  live  in  Mo- 
saic times.  So  we  are  strangers  to  one  another,  we 
who,  for  Mamma's  sake,  continue  to  greet  one  an- 
other as  relations  once  a  week,  at  her  Sundays,  be- 
cause otherwise  we  should  give  her  pain;  and  my 
longing  for  you  all,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  twenty 
years,  my  yearning  for  you,  which  brought  me  back 
to  my  own  country,  was  no  more  than  an  illusion,  a 
phantom?  .  .  ." 

"Well,  Connie,  perhaps  I  was  cruel;  but,  really, 
you  are  so  pastoral !  Country,  native  country  I  My 
dear  child,  what  beautiful  phrases:  how  well  you  re- 
member your  Dutch!  I  have  forgotten  the  very 
words." 

"  Sis,  dear,"  Gerrit  interrupted,  "  don't  listen  to 
the  fellow:  he's  talking  nonsense.  He  denies  every- 
thing because  he  loves  to  hear  himself  speak  and 
because  he  is  a  humbug:  to-morrow  he  will  be  de- 
fending the  country  and  the  family  just  as  he  is 
demolishing  them  to-night.  No,  Sis,  believe  me, 


SMALL   SOULS  261 

there  are  such  things  as  family  and  one's  native  coun- 
try." 

"  Listen  to  the  captain,  the  defender  of  his  coun- 
try, with  the  nice  sound  in  his  voice !  " 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  family.  Not  only  with 
me,  because  my  children  are  still  young,  as  Paul 
has  been  trying  to  explain,  but  everywhere,  every- 
where. I  feel  that  you  are  my  sister,  even  though 
I  didn't  see  you  for  twenty  years.  I  did  not  recog- 
nize you  at  once,  perhaps;  perhaps  I  have  not  quite 
got  you  back  yet:  when  I  think  of  Constance,  I  al- 
ways think  of  my  little  sister  who  used  to  play  in 
the  river  at  Buitenzorg.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Gerrit,  don't  begin  about  my  bare  feet 
again !  "  said  Constance,  raising  her  finger. 

"  But  I  feel  that  you  are  not  a  stranger,  that  there 
is  a  bond  between  us,  a  relationship,  something  al- 
most mystical.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  say,  what  a  poetic  captain  of  hussars!  " 
cried  Paul.  "  Once  he  lets  himself  go  .  .  . !  " 

"  And  country,  one's  native  country,"  Gerrit  con- 
tinued, impetuously,  "  there  is  such  a  thing  as  one's 
country:  I  feel  it  in  me,  Paul,  you  sceptic  and  philos- 
opher, old  before  your  time;  I  feel  it  in  me,  not  as 
something  poetical  and  mystical,  my  boy,  like  the 
family-feeling,  but  as  something  quite  simple,  when 
I  ride  at  the  head  of  my  squadron;  I  feel  it  as  some- 
thing big  and  primitive  and  not  at  all  complex,  when 
I  escort  my  Queen ;  I  feel  that  there  exists  for  me  a 
land  where  I  was  born,  out  of  which  I  have 
grown  .  .  ." 


262  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Adelientje  !  "  Paul  beckoned.  "  Do  come  here, 
Adelientje!  Your  husband  is  so  poetic,  you  must 
really  listen  to  him." 

The  fair-haired  little  mother  came  up. 

"  I  feel  that,  if  any  one  says  anything  about  Hol- 
land, about  my  native  land,  criticizes  it,  speaks  a 
disrespectful  word  of  my  sovereign,  I  feel  something 
here,  here,  in  my  breast.  .  .  ." 

"Adelientje,  do  listen!  Your  husband  is  not  an 
orator,  but  still  he  feels  that  he  feels  something;  in 
short,  he  feels!  Loud  cheers  for  the  captain  of 
hussars  with  the  soft  note  in  his  voice  and  the  mystic 
feelings!  " 

"  Gerrit,  they're  teasing  you !  "  said  Adeline. 

Gerrit  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  little  angrily,  a 
little  uncomfortably,  and  stretched  his  long  legs 
across  the  carpet. 

"  Gerrit,"  said  Constance,  "  I'm  glad  you  said 
what  you  did." 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  growled  Gerrit.  "  There  is 
a  tendency,  not  only  in  Paul, — he's  a  humbug — but 
in  all  sorts  of  people  in  our  set,  Constance,  of  which 
you  were  speaking  so  scornfully  just  now,  to  run 
Holland  down,  to  think  nothing  Dutch  good,  to  think 
our  language  ugly,  to  think  everything  French,  Eng- 
lish or  German  better  than  Dutch.  Those  are  your 
smart  Dutch  people,  Constance,  your  Hague  people, 
whom  you  meet  in  Bertha's  drawing-room,  Con- 
stance. If  they  go  abroad  for  a  couple  of  months, 
they've  forgotten  their  mother-tongue  when  they 
come  back;  but  let  them  be  three  years  without  going 


SMALL    SOULS  263 

to  Paris,  London  or  Berlin,  they'll  never,  never, 
never  forget  their  French,  their  English  or  their 
German!  Oh,  they  know  their  foreign  languages 
so  well!" 

"  Gerrit,"  said  Paul,  "  what  you  say  is  true;  but 
just  try  and  say  it  in  fine  Dutch,  Gerrit!  " 

"  And,  Sis,"  continued  Gerrit,  stammering  a  little, 
but  full  of  mettle,  "  that  is  why  I  think  it  so  nice 
that  you,  a  woman  like  you,  who  have  lived  for  years 
in  Rome,  in  just  that  smart,  cosmopolitan  world 
where  patriotism  tends  to  disappear,  that  you,  who 
have  been  away  from  your  country  for  twenty  years, 
that  just  you  have  felt  awaken  in  yourself  .  .  ." 

"  Bravo !  "  cried  Paul.  "  His  words  are  com- 
ing!" 

"  A  feeling  for  your  country,  for  your  motherland, 
that  made  you  long  to  see  Holland  again.  I  would 
never  have  suspected  it  in  you;  and  that,  Sissy,  is 
why  I  should  almost  like  to  kiss  you  .  .  .  but  we're 
at  a  party.  .  .  ." 

"  And  a  party  of  Adolphine's  into  the  bargain. 
And  Adelientje  is  jealous." 

"  No,  I'm  not!  "  said  Adeline,  good-naturedly. 

"  Well,  then,  Connie,  here  goes!  " 

And  Gerrit  gave  his  sister  an  offhand  kiss. 

"You're  a  couple  of  pastoral  characters!"  said 
Paul.  "  I  can't  compete  with  you." 

"  And  now,  Constance,  a  glass  of  champagne  .  .  . 
to  drink  to  all  the  family  and  to  our  native  land," 
said  Gerrit;  and,  with  Constance  on  his  arm,  he 
walked  across  the  room  to  the  buffet. 


264  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Adelientje,"  said  Paul,  "  was  there  ever  such  a 
madman  as  your  husband?  " 

But  Adolphine  approached  triumphant,  trailing 
her  satin  train,  which  she  thought  magnificent,  and, 
radiant  with  self-complacency,  asked: 

"  Adeline,  tell  me  now,  what  do  you  think  of  my 
party?" 

"  Oh,  beautiful,  Adolphine!  "  said  Adeline. 

"  Adolphine,"  said  Paul,  "  your  party  is  simply 
dazzling.  I  have  been  to  many  parties  in  my  life, 
but  one  like  to-night's,  never !  " 

"  And  a  good  dinner,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  The  dinner  was  so  good,  it  couldn't  have  been 
better." 

"  How  do  you  like  my  new  dress,  Adeline?  Just 
see  how  it  fits." 

She  passed  her  hands  over  her  bosom. 

"  It's  a  very  charming  dress,  Adolphine,"  said 
Adeline. 

"  Adolphine,"  said  Paul,  "  that  velvet  on  the  col- 
lar of  Saetzema's  coat  .  .  ." 

"Yes?  .  .  ." 

"  That's  good  velvet." 

"  Yes,  they're  his  new  dress-clothes,  from  Teunis- 


sen's." 


"  And  that  satin  of  Floortje's  dress  .  .  ." 

"Yes?  .  .  ." 

"  That's  good  satin."^ 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  know  about  satin?  " 

"  Every  one's  saying  so." 

"Really?" 


SMALL    SOULS  265 

"  Yes,  I  heard  them  saying  so  all  over  the  room." 

"Not  really?" 

"  Yes,  as  I  moved  about  among  the  people,  I  heard 
it  whispered  on  every  side,  like  a  rumour:  '  Have 
you  noticed  the  satin  of  Floortje's  dress?  ...  I 
say,  did  you  notice  the  satin  of  Floortje's  dress  ?...'' 

Adolphine  looked  vaguely  in  front  of  her,  not 
knowing  what  to  believe : 

"  Well,  that  frock  cost  ...  a  hundred  and 
twenty  guilders !  "  she  said,  lying  to  the  extent  of 
forty  guilders;  and,  radiant,  she  went  on  and  talked 
to  Mrs.  Bruys,  the  wife  of  the  editor  of  the  Fono- 
graaf: 

"  And,  mevrouw,  what  do  you  say  to  my  party?  " 

"  Paul,"  said  Adeline,  in  gentle  reproach,  "  I  was 
really  frightened  that  Adolphine  would  notice.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

CONSTANCE  was  happy.  She  began  to  realize  more 
and  more  that  she  now  had  what  she  had  missed  for 
years:  her  family;  she  held  it  a  privilege  dearer  every 
day  that  she  was  back  in  her  own  country,  in  Hol- 
land. It  was  as  though  she  became  more  and  more 
penetrated  with  the  consciousness  that  she  had  found 
all  her  near  ones  again,  that  they  had  one  and  all 
forgiven  her  the  past;  and  sometimes  she  imagined 
that  it  was  not  really  twenty  years  since  she  went 
away :  those  twenty  years  seemed  to  shrink.  In  her 
brothers  and  sisters  she  recognized  by  degrees  all  the 
peculiarities  of  former  days,  just  as  though  they  had 
grown  no  older;  and  Mamma  had  remained  exactly 
the  same.  Nor  could  she  but  admire  secretly  the 
almost  childlike  simplicity  of  Van  der  Welcke,  who 
moved  about  calmly  in  the  midst  of  her  relations, 
though  they  were  all  utter  strangers  to  him  and 
though  he,  of  course,  could  have  no  family-feeling 
for  any  of  them.  He  was  most  intimate  with  Paul 
and  oftenest  in  his  company.  Constance  would  have 
liked  to  see  more  of  Bertha,  but  it  was  true,  they  lived 
at  some  distance  from  each  other;  and  yet  they  found 
each  other  again,  as  sisters,  in  that  conversation 
shortly  after  Emilie's  marriage.  Constance  indeed 
was  surprised  that  an  open-hearted  talk  such  as  this 
was  not  more  often  renewed  between  Bertha  and 
herself;  but,  in  any  case,  they  now  felt  as  sisters. 


SMALL    SOULS  267 

As  for  Karel  and  Cateau,  no,  they  remained  dis- 
tant and  strangers,  were  hardly  more  intimate  with 
her  than  if  they  had  been  remote  acquaintances;  but 
Gerrit  had  conceived  a  sort  of  passion   for  Con-      / 
stance;  and,   inasmuch  as  she  had  shown  so  much 
tolerance    towards    Adolphine,     the    latter    really     L 
seemed   a   little   more   gently  disposed  to  her,    for 
Adolphine  remembering  all   Constance'   admiration 
and  praise  of  Floortje's  trousseau,  had  been  heard 
to  say: 

"  She's  not  so  bad,  Constance;  Constance  can  be 
rather  nice  when  she  pleases." 

It  was  summer  now;  and  Constance  felt  happy. 
Bertha  and  her  children  went  to  Switzerland,  where 
Van  Naghel  was  to  join  them  in  August,  and  Adol- 
phine went  for  a  month  to  the  Rhine,  but  Mamma 
remained  at  the  Hague;  and  Constance  was  delighted 
to  see  her  mother  every  day.  They  often  drove  out 
together;  and  they  would  leave  the  carriage  in  the 
Scheveningen  "  Woods  "  or  in  the  Hague  "  Wood  " 
and  walk  along  the  paths.  And  Mamma  always 
talked  about  the  children,  or  the  grandchildren,  or 
the  two  great-grandchildren:  the  children  of  Otto 
and  Frances,  who  had  gone  to  Switzerland  with  the 
others.  As  Bertha  was  not  at  the  Hague  that  sum- 
mer, the  old  woman  had  transferred  her  partiality 
to  Gerrit's  children,  thinking  them  nice  because  they 
were  so  young.  And  so  she  and  Constance  often 
went  to  Gerrit's  and  found  him  in  the  little  morning- 
room,  ready  to  go  out,  in  uniform,  rattling  his  sword, 
clinking  his  spurs;  fair-haired  and  heavy  and  strong 


268  SMALL    SOULS 

in  his  tight  uniform  and  varnished  riding-boots, 
while  two  small  girls  and  two  small  boys,  all  fair- 
haired,  flaxen-haired,  with  soft,  pink  cheeks,  climbed 
over  him  where  he  sprawled  in  his  big  easy-chair: 
Gerdy  and  Adeletje  and  Alex  and  little  Guy;  while 
the  eldest,  Marietje,  eight  years  old,  lifted  the  little 
baby- heavily  in  her  arms,  and  a  bigger  baby  crawled 
among  the  legs  of  the  table  and  chairs  in  search  of 
a  broken  doll.  In  the  midst  of  this  fair-haired  med- 
ley— all  the  children  delicately  built  like  dolls,  with 
their  flaxen  curls  and  their  soft,  pink  blushes — Ger- 
rit  was  like  a  giant,  looked  still  taller  and  stronger; 
his  uniform  filled  the  room  as  he  moved;  romping 
with  his  children,  he  seemed  able,  with  one  move- 
ment, to  send  them  all — Guy  and  Alex  and  Adeletje 
and  Gerdy,  who  hung  on  to  his  arms  and  hands — 
tumbling  over  the  floor,  to  the  terror  of  Grand- 
mamma, who  thought  him  too  rough;  but  Adeline 
was  always  very  calm,  herself  also  fair,  softly-smiling, 
she  too,  with  her  delicate  little  fair  face,  her  figure 
already  assuming  the  rather  matronly  proportions 
of  a  little  wife  who  has  many  children  and  who,  al- 
though young,  has  lost  all  coquetry  in  regard  to 
slenderness.  She  was  simple  and  gentle,  just  a  small, 
fair  little  woman,  for  ever  bearing  children  to  her 
great,  heavy  husband,  as  a  duty  of  which  she  did  not 
think  much,  because  Gerrit  wished  it:  a  nature  of 
smiling  resignation,  always  pleasant  and  calm,  never 
excited  or  upset  because  of  her  turbulent  little  brood 
and  always  calmly  performing  her  motherly  little 
duties.  She  was  expecting  her  eighth  in  November; 


SMALL   SOULS  269 

and  there  seemed  to  be  always  room  in  the  small 
house  fo-r  more  and  more  turbulent,  fair-haired  chil- 
dren. Then  Mamma  van  Lowe,  who  had  come  with 
Constance  after  lunch,  would  ask: 

"  Well,     who's     coming     for     a     drive     with 
Granny?  .  .  ." 

And  usually  it  was  so  arranged  that,  besides  Ade- 
line herself,  some  four  fair-haired  little  ones  were 
taken  into  the  landau:  three  of  the  children  were 
crowded  inside  and  Alex  went  on  the  box,  entrusted 
to  the  special  care  of  the  coachman.  Then  Mamma 
van  Lowe's  face  beamed  with  joy,  while  a  long  drive 
was  taken  through  Voorburg,  Wassenaar  or  Voor- 
schoten,  and  the  children  were  regaled  on  milk,  if 
the  opportunity  offered.  Or  else  they  merely  drove 
to  Scheveningen;  and  Mrs.  .van  Lowe  made  quite 
a  stir  at  Berenbak's,  every  one  staring  at  the  car- 
riage out  of  which,  besides  the  three  ladies,  came  the 
three  little  children,  while  Alex  scrambled  down  from 
the  box.  The  waiter  would  put  two  tables  together ; 
and  ices  and  pastry  were  ordered.  And,  whereas, 
at  the  Van  Naghels'  house,  the  old  woman  enjoyed 
above  all  the  veneer  of  state  which  distinguished  their 
life,  the  life  that  reminded  her  of  her  own  great  days, 
she  enjoyed  herself  in  a  different  way  amid  that 
little  brood  of  Adeline's,  enjoyed  all  that  fair-haired, 
merry,  natural  youthfulness,  where  there  were  no  pre- 
tensions whatever  to  state:  she  was  no  longer  the 
worldly  grandmamma,  interested  in  official  dinners 
and  receptions  and  the  Russian  minister,  but  the  ra- 
diant grandmamma,  who  rejoiced  at  having  so  many 


270  SMALL   SOULS 

dear  little  grandchildren,  all  so  young.  It  was 
pleasant,  she  would  say  to  Constance,  that  Gerrit 
had  married  rather  late — he  was  thirty-five  when 
he  married — because  through  that,  she  said,  she  had 
so  many  young  grandchildren.  And  it  was  nice,  she 
said,  that  they  were  Van  Lowes,  the  only  little  Van 
Lowes,  three  little  sons  to  keep  the  name  alive,  for 
Karel  had  no  children ;  and  Ernst  and  Paul  were  sure 
never  to  marry,  she  thought.  And,  though  she  did 
not  care  much  for  the  name  and  reckoned  all  grand- 
children as  profit,  as  so  much  to  the  good,  she  never- 
theless felt  most  for  the  little  Van  Lowes,  for  the 
three  little  boys  especially,  for  the  heirs  of  the  name 
which  she  had  married.  And  so,  while  winter  was 
the  time  which  she  enjoyed  at  the  Van  Naghels', 
she  devoted  her  summer  at  the  Hague  to  Gerrit  and 
Adeline.  She  helped  Adeline,  who  had  to  be  very 
careful  with  a  moderate  income  and  such  a  large 
troop  of  little  ones,  and  regularly,  in  the  summer, 
the  old  lady  dressed  the  fair-haired  little  children, 
gave  them  all  something,  saw  that  they  had  pretty 
clothes  to  go  about  in. 

And  Constance  also  delighted  in  this  simple  house- 
i  'hold,  especially  since  Gerrit  had  conceived  a  sort 
of  passion  for  her.  Gerrit  and  Paul  were  her 
brothers  now;  and  Dorine  sulked  a  bit.  She  did  not 
get  on  with  Constance,  she  could  not  tell  why.  Con- 
stance had  spoken  so  very  nicely  to  her  that  first 
evening;  and  Dorine  had  helped  Mamma,  with  all 
her  heart,  to  prepare  a  cordial  welcome  for  Con- 
stance among  the  brothers  and  sisters.  But  their 


SMALL   SOULS  271 

natures  were  not  made  to  harmonize;  and  Dorine 
was  now  muttering  that  Constance  must  always  have 
men  about  her,  that  she  got  on  best  with  Gerrit  and 
Paul,  who  both  paid  court  to  her  after  a  fashion. 
Her  brothers  had  never  paid  court  to  her,  Dorine, 
after  any  fashion.  Yes,  pretty  women  were  always 
at  an  advantage,  even  with  their  own  brothers.  All 
she,  Dorine,  was  good  for  was  to  trot  about  and  run 
errands  for  the  brothers  and  sisters.  And  yet  it 
was  very  strange,  but,  since  Bertha  and  Adolphine 
had  been  out  of  town  and  Dorine  went  oftener  to 
Adeline's,  she  would  ask  of  her  own  accord,  "  Ade- 
lientje,  I'm  going  into  town  this  afternoon:  is  there 
anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  and,  when  Adeline 
answered,  "  It's  very  sweet  of  you,  Dorine,  but 
really,  there's  nothing  I  want,"  Dorine  would  re- 
ply, "  Well,  just  think  again:  I  have  to  go  into  town, 
you  see;  "  and  then,  if  Adeline  said,  "  Well,  Dorine, 
if  you're  going  in  any  case,  would  you  look  in  at 
Schroder's  for  some  pinafores  for  Adeletje  and  at 
Moller  and  Thijs'  for  shoes:  they  all  want  shoes," 
Dorine  would  go  off  at  a  trot  and  hurry,  with  her 
wide-legged,  shuffling  gait,  to  Schroder's  and  to 
Moller  and  Thijs',  muttering  to  herself: 

"When  it's  not  Bertha  or  Adolphine,  it's  Ade- 
line who  manages  to  make  use  of  me !  " 

"  I  think  Gerrit  a  most  companionable  brother," 
said  Constance,  one  evening,  while  Paul  sat  taking 
tea  with  her. 

'  Yes,  he's  a  good  sort,  but  he's  queer." 

"  But  why  queer,   Paul?     You're  always  saying 


272  SMALL    SOULS 

that  and  I  have  never  taken  any  notice  of  it.  Why 
is  Gerrit  queerer  than  Ernst  or  yourself?" 

"  Well,  Ernst  isn't  normal  either  and  I  ... 
only  just." 

"  But  Gerrit,  surely,  is  normal!  " 

"  Perhaps.  Perhaps  he  is.  But  sometimes  I 
fancy  he's  not." 

"  But  what  does  he  do,  what  is  there  about  him 
that's  strange?"  asked  Constance,  indignantly,  like 
a  true  Van  Lowe,  defending  her  brother  as  soon  as 
that  brother  was  attacked. 

"  Gerrit  has  been  married  nine  years.  Formerly, 
he  was  a  very  lugubrious  gentleman." 

"Gerrit  lugubrious!"  Constance  laughed  heart- 
ily. "  My  dear  Paul,  your  knowledge  of  human 
nature  is  deserting  you.  Gerrit,  a  healthy  fellow, 
strong  as  a  horse,  an  excellent  officer,  a  jolly  brother, 
a  first-rate  father  with  all  his  fair-haired  little  chil- 
dren :  Gerrit  lugubrious !  Where  do  you  get  that 
idea  from?  Oh,  Paul,  sometimes,  from  sheer  love 
of  paradox,  you  say  such  very  improbable  things !  " 

"  You  did  not  know  Gerrit  as  he  was,  Constance." 

"  I  knew  him  as  a  boy  of  fourteen,  when  we  used 
to  play  in  the  river  at  Buitenzorg.  Gerrit  is  still 
always  flying  into  ecstasies  about  that  time  and  my 
little  bare  feet !  Then  I  knew  Gerrit  as  a  cadet  and 
as  a  young  subaltern,  twenty  years  ago ;  and  he  was 
always  pleasant  and  gay." 

"  And  I  remember  Gerrit,  ten  years  ago,  lugubri- 
ous and  melancholy." 

"Oh,  every  one  has  an  occasional  mood!     Per- 


SMALL   SOULS  273 

haps  he  had  an  unhappy  love-affair:  why  not  Gerrit 
as  well  as  another?  " 

"  I  may  be  wrong,  of  course." 

"  When  I  see  Gerrit,  in  his  big  chair,  with  all 
those  children  climbing  over  his  legs  and  chest,  he 
looks  to  me  the  very  personification  of  happiness. 
Oh,  Paul,  and  I  too,  I  too  feel  happy:  I  can't  tell 
you,  Paul,  how  happy  I  am  to  be  back  here  in  the 
Hague  I  And  now,  now  you  do  all  care  for  me  a 
little  again:  even  Adolphine  was  very  nice  lately, 
before  she  went  away;  and  I  am  happy,  I  am  so 
happy !  " 

'  You  have  a  very  gentle,  noble,  pastoral  nature, 
with  a  strong  atavistic  tendency !  "  said  Paul,  teasing 
her.  "  Look,  here  are  your  husband  and  your  boy 
back  with  their  bicycles,  just  like  two  brothers,  an 
elder  and  a  younger  brother.  They  make  a  good 
pair.  Now,  if  you're  so  happy,  don't  be  jealous  and 
try  and  remain  as  pastoral  all  the  evening  as  you  are 
at  this  moment  .  .  .  even  if  your  husband  should 
enter  the  room  presently!  ,  «  «" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  old  woman  walked  with  slow  steps  along  the 
paths  of  the  garden,  carefully  examining  each  sepa- 
rate rose  with  her  grey  eyes.  Her  legs  seemed  to 
move  with  difficulty  along  the  narrow  gravel-paths 
that  wound  through  the  front-garden ;  and  her  frame 
was  bent,  as  though  deformed.  In  a  wicker-work 
chair  on  the  verandah  sat  the  tall,  old  figure  of  the 
husband,  his  ivory  forehead  bulging  above  the  pages 
of  the  newspaper  which  he  held  in  his  large,  shrivelled 
hands.  .  .  . 

Evening  fell.  A  nameless  grey  melancholy  fell 
from  the  pale  summer  sky  over  the  country-roads, 
along  which  the  peaceful  villas  faded  into  the  shad- 
ows of  their  gardens.  The  old  woman  looked  up 
at  the  sky,  looked  out  over  the  road,  with  her  hand 
shading  her  eyes,  walked  on  again,  slowly  and  pain- 
fully, carefully  examining  each  separate  rose.  .  .  . 
Then  she  went  back  to  the  house : 

"  It  is  getting  cold,  Hendrik;  don't  stay  out  too 
long." 

"  No." 

But  the  old  man  remained  sitting  where  he  was. 
The  old  woman  went  in,  wandered  through  the  sit- 
ting-room and  the  dining-room.  She  passed  her 
pocket-handkerchief  lightly  over  the  furniture,  look- 
ing to  see  if  there  was  any  dust  on  it;  and,  as  the 
parlour-maid  had  cleared  the  table,  she  pulled  the 

*74 


SMALL   SOULS  275 

cloth  straight,  put  a  chair  into  its  proper  place, 
smoothed  away  a  crease  in  the  curtain.  She  went 
into  the  conservatory,  looked  into  the  back-garden. 
Her  sad  grey  eyes  gazed  out  into  the  grey  melan- 
choly of  the  darkling  night.  The  wind  rose, 
moaned  softly  through  the  topmost  twigs  of  the  trees. 

The  old  woman  looked  round  at  the  old  man, 
but  he  remained  sitting  in  the  wicker  chair,  lost  in 
the  great  pages  of  his  newspaper: 

"  Don't  catch  cold,  Hendrik,"  she  repeated, 
gently. 

"  I'm  coming." 

But  the  old  man  remained  sitting  where  he  was. 
Now  the  old  woman  wandered  down  the  passage, 
listened  at  the  door  of  the  kitchen  and  of  a  small 
back-room:  voices  sounded,  the  voices  of  the  maids 
and  the  butler.  Then  she  went  up  the  stairs,  wan- 
dered through  the  bedrooms,  wandered  through  the 
empty  spare-rooms,  with  a  sigh,  because  they  never 
came.  Everything  was  neatly  kept,  hushed  and 
quiet,  as  in  a  house  that  lacks  life.  .  .  . 

The  old  woman,  bent  and  tottering,  sighed,  was 
restless.  She  wandered  again  through  all  the  bed- 
rooms and  wearily  made  her  way  downstairs  again, 
crossed  the  passage,  entered  the  living-room.  The 
old  man  was  seated  there  now;  the  windows  into  the 
garden  were  closed.  He  had  folded  up  his  paper 
and,  seated  by  the  window,  was  still  gazing  out  to 
where  the  road  of  villas  grew  darker  and  darker  in 
the  chill  dimness  of  the  late-summer  evening,  now 
beginning  to  rustle  with  the  rising  wind.  Then, 


276  SMALL    SOULS 

stifling  a  sigh,  the  old  woman  sat  down  at  the  other 
window,  wearily  folded  her  hands,  placed  her  tired 
feet  side  by  side  on  a  stool. 

The  room  grew  dark,  the  windows  turned  grey, 
just  outlined  by  the  curtains.  The  road  was  more 
and  more  blurred  in  the  dimness  of  the  windy  night. 
A  grey  melancholy  reigned  without  and  a  grey  melan- 
choly reigned  within,  with  those  two  old  people,  each 
sitting  silent  at  a  window,  lonely  and  forlorn,  drear- 
ily sunk  in  their  own  thoughts.  They  sat  thus  for 
a  long  time,  quietly,  without  a  word.  Then  the  old 
woman  said: 

"  It  is  Henri's  birthday  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man.  "  He  will  be  thirty- 
nine." 

And  they  said  nothing  more  and  stared  before 
them.  Then  the  old  woman  grew  restless  again 
and  rose  from  her  chair  with  difficulty,  hobbled 
through  the  room,  holding  on  by  the  chairs  as  she 
went,  and  rang  the  bell : 

"  Light  the  gas  and  bring  in  the  tea,  Piet." 

The  butler  lit  the  gas,  drew  the  curtains  and 
brought  the  tea.  The  old  man  sat  down  at  the  table 
with  a  book;  and  the  light  fell  harshly  on  his  ivory 
forehead  and  his  blue-shaven  face ;  his  gnarled,  bony 
hands  cast  large  shadows  over  the  book,  turned  the 
pages  at  regular  intervals.  . 

"  Here's  your  tea,  Hendrik." 

The  old  man  drank  his  cup  of  tea. 

Then  the  old  woman  also  took  her  book  and 
read. 


SMALL   SOULS  277 

Slowly,  in  the  course  of  years,  she  had  read  her 
Bible  less  and  less,  because  she  was  wicked  after 
all  and  because  she  had  never  resigned  herself  to  the 
sacrifice  which  she  had  made,  which  it  was  her  duty 
to  make,  before  God  and  man.  Then  she  chanced 
on  a  wonderful  book  which  described  what  hap- 
pened to  people  after  death.  And  this  book  she 
read  every  evening. 

But  she  was  unable  to  read,  this  evening.  As  a 
rule,  the  old  pair  read,  over  their  cup  of  tea,  till 
ten  o'clock,  in  silence,  and  then  got  up  and  went 
to  bed.  But  the  old  woman  could  not  read  this 
evening.  Her  aching  feet  fidgeted  on  the  stool,  her 
bent  body  moved  in  vague  discomfort.  And  she 
asked,  still  casually,  nervously: 

"  Will  Henri  be  thirty-nine  to-morrow,  Hen- 
drik?" 

"  Yes." 

She  knew  quite  well  that  he  would  be  thirty-nine, 
but  she  wanted  to  say  it  again,  wanted  to  talk  of  her 
son.  For  fifteen  long  years,  she  had  not  seen  him; 
and  his  birthdays,  the  anniversaries  of  the  day  on 
which  she  had  borne  him,  her  only  child,  had  passed 
while  he  was  very  far  away,  too  far  for  her  to  reach 
him  and  take  him  in  her  arms..  For  many  years, 
she  had  hoped: 

"  Now  it  will  come,  now  it  will  come  nearer." 

But  it  had  not  come  nearer.  Until  suddenly  it 
was  very  near,  until  suddenly  it  was  there.  Now 
it  was  here,  after  long,  long  years;  and  yet  it  was 
not  here,  it  was  far  away.  .  .  . 


278  SMALL    SOULS 

She  could  not  read,  got  up,  went  out  of  the  room, 
across  the  hall.  The  old  man  stared  after  her,  went 
on  reading.  And  it  was  as  though  her  disquiet  kept 

'increasing,  as  though  a  voice — one  of  those  voices 
of  which  she  had  read  in  that  strange  book — said 
to  her: 

"  Go,  go  to-morrow !  " 

Never  had  a  voice  spoken  so  plainly  to  her,  the 
old  woman,  and  as  it  were  ordered  her  to  go,  to  go 
to-morrow.  She  was  very  old,  in  years,  in  move- 
ment and  in  feeling;  and  she  never,  never  travelled. 
She  lived  quietly  in  her  house  beside  the  country- 
road,  summer  and  winter  alike;  and  sometimes  she 
went  for  a  little  drive  in  the  neighbourhood.  Be- 
yond that  she  no  longer  went,  for  she  was  gouty  and 
full  of  aches  and  pains  which  bent  her  withered  back. 
For  years  and  years,  she  had  not  travelled,  had  not 
sat  in  the  train  which,  for  years,  she  had  heard  whis- 
tling at  the  station,  sometimes  even  heard  rumbling. 
And  now  the  mysterious  voice  so  plainly  and  insist- 
ently commanded: 

"Go!" 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  room,  sat  down  and, 
this  time,  was  unable  to  stifle  her  sigh.  She  sighed. 
The  old  man  heard,  but  did  not  know  how  to  ask 
her  why  she  was  sighing.  For  years,  for  long  years, 
there  had  been  so  little  said  between  them.  Only 
now,  this  spring,  when  Henri's  letter  came,  they  had 
spoken,  but  not  much.  A  couple  of  days  after  re- 
ceiving the  letter,  the  old  man  said: 

u  I  will  write  to  him." 


SMALL   SOULS  279 

And  that  was  really  the  only  thing  that  had  been 
said.  But  they  had  not  lived  so  many  years  in  si- 
lence, side  by  side,  without  learning  to  hear  each 
other  speak  though  both  were  silent.  They  knew, 
without  speaking,  what  either  said,  silently  in  his 
heart.  Only  now,  though  the  old  man  himself  was 
thinking  of  Henri  that  night,  he  did  not  know  what 
his  wife  was  saying  to  him,  silently,  without  words, 
in  that  one  sigh;  and  this  was  because  he  did  not 
read  that  strange  book  and  never  heard  the  strange 
voices.  Therefore  he  sought  for  a  word  to  say 
and  found  it  very  difficult  to  find  a  word,  but  at  last 
he  did  speak  and  said,  simply: 

"What  is  it?" 

He  did  not  look  up,  went  on  reading  his  book  as 
he  spoke. 

Then  the  old  woman's  aching  feet  fidgeted  still 
more  nervously  on  their  stool;  the  bent  shoulders 
shivered  more  nervously  under  their  little  black 
shawl ;  and  she  began  to  cry,  softly. 

"  Come,  what  is  it?" 

•  He  pretended  to  go  on  reading  his  book,  because 
talking  and  crying  were  so  difficult,  and  because  it 
was  easier  to  pretend  to  go  on  reading. 

The  old  woman  said,  because  his  old  voice  had 
spoken  gently: 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  Henri,  to-morrow." 

Now  they  were  both  silent;  and  the  old  man  went 
on  reading;  and  the  old  woman,  waiting  for  his  an- 
swer, ceased  crying,  ceased  moving  her  feet,  her 
shoulders.  And,  after  a  silence,  the  old  man  said: 


28o  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Take  Piet  with  you,  then,  to  help  you." 

She  nodded  her  head;  and  the  tears  flowed  from 
her  eyes,  while  she  drew  her  book  to  her,  inwardly 
pleased  that  he  had  said  so  much  and  said  it  so 
kindly.  She  sighed  once  more,  this  time  with  relief, 
and  read  on.  But  her  eyes  did  not  see  the  words, 
because  she  was  thinking  that  to-morrow  she  would 
be  going  with  Piet,  the  butler,  in  the  train — in  which 
she  had  not  been  for  years  and  years — to  the  Hague, 
to  see  Henri. 

"Go!"  the  voice  had  said.  "Go!"  the  voice 
had  commanded. 

And  she  was  going.  It  had  come  at  last,  come  so 
near  that  it  would  be  there  to-morrow:  not  that 
Henri  was  coming  to  her,  but  that  she  was  going  to 
Henri,  to  kiss  him,  tojorgiYC-  him.  .  .  . 

And  she  read  on,  did  not  see  the  strange  words 
which  told  what  happened  to  people  after  death, 
but  wept  softly,  inaudibly,  over  her  book,  wept  for 
still  contentment  and  peace,  because  he  had  spoken 
to  her  and  had  said: 

"  Take  Piet  with  you,  then,  to  help  you." 

When  it  was  ten  o'clock,  he  closed  his  book,  stood 
up.  And  she  would  so  much  have  liked  to  ask  him 
if  he  too  would  come  with  her  to-morrow,  in  the 
train,  to  Henri,  because  it  was  not  so  difficult  and 
Piet  could  take  the  tickets.  But  she  did  not  ask  him, 
because  she  knew  that  it  was  even  more  difficult  for 
him  than  for  her  to  travel  and  go  by  train,  that  train 
which  he  also  for  years  had  heard  whistling  and 
sometimes  rumbling.  So  she  did  not  ask  him,  be- 


SMALL    SOULS  281 

cause  he  would  certainly  refuse.  And  without  a 
doubt  he  heard  within  himself  what  she  hesitated  to 
ask  him,  for  he  said,  gently: 

"  I  shall  not  go ;  but  give  him  many  good  wishes,     » 
from  his  father." 

Then,  stiffly  and  with  difficulty,  he  bent  his  tall 
figure  and  his  ivory  forehead,  went  to  her  and  kissed 
her  on  the  brow.  And  she  took  his  gnarled  hand 
and  pressed  it  gently.  Then  he  went  upstairs  and 
she  rang  the  bell. 

The  butler  entered. 

"  Piet,"  she  said,  hesitatingly  and  shyly,  and  she 
blushed  before  the  butler.  "  I  am  going  to-morrow 
to  the  Hague,  to  Mr.  Henri.  It's  his  birthday. 
And  I  should  like  you  to  take  me  there." 

The  man  looked  up  in  surprise,  smiled: 

"  Very  well,  ma'am,  as  you  please." 

And,  as  she  went  up  the  stairs,  she  tried  to  hold 
herself  more  erect ;  she  felt  younger.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AND  in  her  room  she  hardly  slept  for  nervousness 
about  the  great  event  that  was  to  happen  on  the  mor- 
row. All  the  night  through,  while  the  wind  moaned 
against  the  panes,  she  lay  in  bed,  with  unclosed  eyes, 
listening  whether  she  could  not  hear  in  the  voices  of 
the  wind  yet  other  voices,  strange  voices,  voices 
warning  or  commanding  the  living. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  her  husband  about  the 
voices,  though  he  was  well  aware  that  she  read  the 
strange  book  and  disapproved  of  her  reading  it,  be- 
cause it  could  not  be  fit  and  proper  reading  for  peo- 
ple who,  from  their  childhood,  had  believed  that  the 
best  of  all  books  was  the  Bible  and  the  best  of  all 
beliefs  the  belief  in  the  Lord,  from  Whom  every 
sorrow  came  and  every  blessing.  And  she  had  hid- 
den the  strange  book  also  from  the  old  minister, 
who  came  to  see  them  every  week,  since  they  both, 
growing  older  each  year  and  ailing,  had  ceased  to 
go  to  church:  she  put  the  strange  book  out  of  the 
way  when  he  was  expected  on  a  Sunday-afternoon; 
but  she  studied  it  without  concealment  from  her  old 
husband  and  yet  in  silence,  as  though  guilty  of  a 
secret  heresy.  He  had  asked  her  once: 

;'  What  are  you  reading  there?  " 

And  she  told  him  the  strange  title  and  said  that 
she  wanted  to  enquire  into  things,  but  nothing  fur- 
ther had  been  uttered  between  the  two  old  people, 

282 


SMALL   SOULS  283 

though  she  heard  him  silently  express  his  disapproval. 
But,  since  the  day  when,  years  ago,  she  had  yielded 
to  her  husband  and  consented  to  the  superhuman  sac- 
rifice of  surrendering  her  son  to  the  woman  whom 
that  son  had  plunged  into  unhappiness — because  this 
sacrifice  was  the  duty  which  was  required  of  her  by 
divine  and  human  equity — since  that  time  she  had 
had  no  peace,  read  as  she  might  in  her  Bible,  talk 
as  she  would  with  the  minister,  pray  as  she  did  for 
hours  on  end.  She  had  had  no  peace:  deep  down 
in  herself  she  had  always  borne  a  grudge  because 
Heaven  had  laid  so  heavy  a  sacrifice  upon  her,  the 
mother.  Her  husband  had  had  the  strength  of  a 
man  who  pursues  the  straight  path,  the  path  of  duty, 
and  he  had  surrenderd  his  son  and  lost  him  without 
a  superfluous  word.  But  she,  though  she  also  spoke 
no  word,  had  not  resigned  herself;  and  her  soul 
had  rebelled;  and  she  had  thought  that  she  was  lost 
for  all  eternity  .  .  .  until  a  gentle  ray  had  come, 
by  accident,  to  comfort  her  out  of  the  strange  book 
which,  by  accident,  she  had  taken  up  and  opened. 
And,  still  a  believer,  though  she  no  longer  went  to 
church  and  though,  in  her  heart,  she  did  not  agree 
with  the  minister,  did  not  agree  with  her  old  hus- 
band, she  nevertheless  endeavoured  to  unite,  to 
reconcile,  to  blend  what  remained  of  the  old  faith, 
which  had  once  stood  firm  as  a  rock,  with  the  new 
faith;  and,  when  she  prayed,  she  prayed  indeed  to 
the  same  God  of  her  old,  former  faith,  but  she  lis- 
tened also  to  the  voices,  to  that  part  of  the  invisible 
world  which  hovers  around  us  and  saves  us  and 


284  SMALL    SOULS 

guides  us  and  warns  and  protects  us  and  sets  its  soft- 
smiling  compassion  between  us  and  the  rigid  immuta- 
bility of  the  divine  grace  or  displeasure,  tempering 
the  divine  brow  into  a  softer  glance.  That  was  her 
secret;  and  what  she  silently  told  her  husband  of  the 
new  faith  still  remained  an  unpenetrated  secret  to 
him  in  the  dumb  evenings  when  they  sat  together 
and  read  and  he  heard  her,  in  silence,  say  that  she 
believed  differently  from  what  she  once  did  because 
she  had  found  no  peace  in  that  divine  immutability. 

And  now  the  day  came  which  was  Henri's  birth- 
day. She  dressed  very  early,  with  difficulty  and 
with  shaking  hands,  and,  when  Piet  told  her  that 
there  was  a  train  at  nine  o'clock,  she  blushed  and 
remained  quietly  waiting  for  the  carriage  to  be  got 
ready  and  for  Piet  to  come  and  tell  her.  She  was 
her  ordinary  self  at  breakfast,  but  tried,  without 
attracting  attention,  not  to  eat,  because  the  bread 
Stuck  in  her  throat;  and,  when,  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  her  husband  asked  if  she  had  not  telegraphed 
to  Henri,  she  answered: 

"  No." 

Almost  inaudibly  and  silently,  she  thus  conveyed 
to  her  husband  that  she  wished  to  give  Henri  a  sur- 
prise. 

She  remained  sitting  motionless;  did  not  wash 
up  the  breakfast-cups  that  morning,  as  she  was  al- 
ways wont  to  do;  was  a  little  uncomfortable  in  the 
presence  of  her  husband  and  the  parlour-maid  and 
Piet  at  this  omission  of  her  usual  habit.  She  heard 
the  clock  ticking,  the  seconds  falling  away;  and  she 


SMALL   SOULS  285 

was  afraid  that,  if  Piet  loitered  so,  she  would  be 
late,  or  that  there  would  be  an  accident.  Luckily, 
the  morning-paper  came;  and  the  old  man  plunged 
into  its  pages  while  she  remained  waiting,  in  her 
cloak  and  her  unfashionable,  black,  old  lady's  bon- 
net, for  Piet  to  come  and  say  that  it  was  time  to  go. 
The  parlour-maid  washed  up  the  breakfast-cups; 
and  she  was  afraid  the  maid  would  break  one,  be- 
cause she  was  not  used  to  it.  It  made  quite  a  change, 
throughout  the  house,  that  she  was  going  this  morn- 
ing by  train,  to  the  Hague,  to  Henri,  whose  birth- 
day it  was.  She  was  uncomfortable  and  she  feared 
that  the  people  along  the  road  and  at  the  station 
would  stand  looking  and  wondering  why  Mrs.  van 
der  Welcke  was  going  on  a  journey.  And,  when, 
at  last,  Piet  came  to  tell  her,  she  could  not  get  up  at 
first,  because  her  old  legs  shook  so  and  her  feet 
pricked  her,  as  though  they  had  been  asleep.  But 
she  made  a  painful  effort,  stood  up,  gave  Piet  her 
purse;  and  the  old  man  said: 

"  Piet,  will  you  look  after  mevrouw,  getting  in 
and  out  of  the  train?" 

Piet  promised;  and  she  took  leave  of  her  husband. 
The  carriage  was  at  the  door;  and  she  dared  not  look 
at  Dirk,  the  coachman,  because  she  was  shy,  while 
Piet  held  open  the  carriage-door  and  helped  her  to 
step  in,  with  some  little  difficulty.  In  the  carriage, 
she  shrank  back,  because  the  woman  with  the  vegeta- 
bles was  just  passing  and  she  was  afraid  that  she 
might  see  her.  Also  she  reflected  that  the  people 
in  the  other  villas  would  be  sure  to  see  the  carriage 


286  SMALL    SOULS 

drive  out  and  wonder  what  was  happening,  so  early 
in  the  morning.  But,  when,  at  the  station,  Piet 
helped  her  to  alight  and  led  her  to  the  little  waiting- 
room  and  went  to  take  the  tickets,  she  was  very 
shy  before  a  lady  and  gentleman  who  were  also 
waiting  and  who  no  doubt  thought  it  very  strange 
that  she,  an  old  woman,  should  go  travelling  like 
that.  Fortunately,  Piet  had  calculated  the  time  and 
she  had  not  long  to  wait,  at  which  she  was  very  glad, 
because  the  whistling  of  the  trains  and  the  ring- 
ing of  the  bell  made  her  very  nervous,  terrified  lest 
she  should  miss  the  train,  and  she  did  not  know  to  a 
minute  at  what  time  it  started.  But  Piet  came  to 
tell  her  and  fetched  her;  and  she  tried  to  walk 
straight  and,  assisted  by  Piet,  to  climb  into  the  car- 
riage not  all  too  painfully  and  laboriously.  Piet  had 
taken  a  second-class  ticket  for  himself;  and  she  would 
rather  have  had  him  come  into  her  compartment, 
but  he  had,  of  course,  not  dared,  from  respect  for 
his  mistress,  and  she  had  not  dared  ask  him.  But 
she  resolved  to  sit  very  quiet  until  Piet  came  to  fetch 
her.  The  lady  and  the  gentleman  were  in  the  same 
compartment  as  herself,  but  they  were  very  polite: 
the  gentleman  had  bowed  and  the  lady  too;  and 
fortunately  they  did  not  look  at  her  again,  but  talked 
to  each  other  in  low  voices.  And,  when  the  train 
moved  off,  the  old  woman  sat  quietly,  with  set  lips, 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  meadows  speeding 
past.  .  .  .  Now  she  was  beginning  to  wonder  what 
Henri  would  say  and  she  also  thought  of  Constance 
and  of  her  grandson,  Adriaan.  And  she  was  a  little 


SMALL    SOULS  287 

frightened  at  what  she  had  done.  They  might  be 
out,  or  very  busy  with  the  Van  Lowes,  Constance' 
relations.  She  did  not  quite  know  in  what  way 
Henri  and  Constance  lived,  at  the  Hague.  Henri, 
it  was  true,  had  been  to  Driebergen  again,  just  once 
more,  by  himself,  but  she  had  received  no  distinct 
impression  from  his  words,  because  she  had  hardly 
listened,  had  only  sat  gazing  at  him,  her  son,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  for  so  many  years,  who  had  not 
been  allowed  to  exist  for  her.  .  .  .  She  trembled 
suddenly  at  what  she  had  dared  to  do,  but  it  was 
now  too  late.  She  was  sitting  in  the  train;  and  the 
train  was  carrying  her  along;  and  also  she  did  not 
know  how  to  tell  Piet,  when  the  train  stopped,  that 
she  would  rather  just  go  back  again.  Then,  from 
sheer  inability  to  do  otherwise,  she  at  last  found 
courage  to  sit  still  and  let  the  train  take  her  on  until 
it  slowed  into  the  station  at  the  Hague  and  Piet 
came  to  fetch  her  and  helped  her  climb  down  the 
high  steps  of  the  railway-carriage.  Piet  now  led 
her  slowly  and  quietly  through  the  busy  crowd  of 
people,  which  he  allowed  to  flow  ahead  of  them, 
and  out  of  the  station,  chose  a  nice  cab,  helped  her 
in,  gave  the  address  of  Baron  van  der  Welcke, 
Kerkhoflaan,  and  got  up  on  the  box,  next  to  the 
driver.  And  now,  seated  in  the  cab,  which  rattled 
over  the  cobble-stones,  she  was  glad,  after  all,  that 
she  had  persevered  and  she  thought  that  it  was  not 
so  very  difficult,  after  all,  and  believed  that,  after 
all,  Henri  would  perhaps  think  it  nice  of  her  to  have 
come  without  notice.  It  was  a  long  drive;  and  she 


288  SMALL   SOULS 

had  not  been  to  the  Hague  for  years  and  had  for- 
gotten the  streets  and  squares;  but,  at  last,  the  cab 
stopped  and  she  looked  out  while  Piet  climbed  down 
from  the  box,  rang  the  bell,  opened  the  door  of  the 
cab,  helped  her  out.  .  .  . 

Yes,  she  was  there  now  and  she  trembled  violently 
when  the  maid  opened  the  door  and  she  entered  the 
hall.  She  was  there  now.  And  she  could  find  noth- 
ing to  say  when  a  door  in  the  passage  opened  and 
Constance,  amazed,  came  out  to  her.  This  was  the 
second  time  that  she  had  seen  that  woman.  .  .  . 

"Mamma!" 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I  would  come,  because  it  was 
Henri's  birthday.  .  .  ." 

She  knew — she  had  not  failed  to  understand — 
that  her  son  was  not  happy  with  that  woman  and 
she  felt  a  certain  disappointment  that  it  was  not 
Henri  himself  who  came  out  to  welcome  her. 

But  the  astonishment  in  Constance'  face  changed 
to  a  look  of  soft  and  glad  surprise.  She  was  very 
sensitive  to  kindness  and  she  felt  that  it  was  kind 
of  this  old  woman  to  come :  this  old  lady  who  never 
went  anywhere,  who  had  come  with  her  butler.  .  .  . 

"  How  pleased  Henri  will  be !  "  she  said,  gently, 
and  her  eyes  grew  moist.  "  How  very  pleased 
Henri  will  bel  He  is  out  now,  on  his  bicycle,  but 
he'll  be  back  soon.  Come  in,  take  off  your  cloak 
inside :  I'm  afraid  there's  a  draught  out  here.  Good- 
morning,  Piet:  so  you've  brought  mevrouw?  Go 
into  the  kitchen,  Piet,  will  you?  Come  in,  Mamma. 
How  delighted  Henri  will  be !  He  is  sure  to  be  in 


SMALL   SOULS  289 

very  soon.  And  this  is  my  mother,  who  has  also 
come  to  see  us  this  morning." 

She  led  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke  into  the  morning- 
room;  and  there  stood  old  Mrs.  van  Lowe.  And, 
when  Constance  closed  the  door,  the  two  old  ladies 
looked  at  each  other  and  were  both  very  nervous; 
and  Constance  felt  like  that  too,  trembling  in  her 
limbs.  The  old  ladies  looked  at  each  other;  and 
it  was  as  though  the  two  mothers,  with  that  long, 
long  look,  asked  each  other's  forgiveness,  after  many 
long  years,  for  their  two  children.  Then  Mrs.  van 
Lowe  approached  and  put  out  her  two  hands;  and 
her  words  sounded  very  simple: 

"  I  am  so  delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
mevrouw.  .  .  ." 

Yes,  they  asked,  without  saying  so,  they  asked 
each  other's  forgiveness  for  the  offence  which  their 
two  children  had  committed,  years  and  years  ago, 
against  each  other  and  against  themselves  and 
against  their  lives.  They  asked  each  other's  for- 
giveness with  the  unspeakable  gentleness  of  two  very 
old  women  who  still  looked  upon  their  children, 
whatever  their  age  might  be,  as  children,  as  their 
children.  They  asked  each  other's  forgiveness  with- 
out words,  with  a  glance  and  a  pressure  of  the  hands; 
and  Constance  understood  so  plainly  what  they  were 
asking  each  other  that  she  quietly  left  the  room,  feel- 
ing suddenly  like  a  child,  a  tiny  child  that  had  be- 
haved badly  towards  those  two  mothers.  .  .  .  Con- 
stance felt  it  so  intensely  that  she  went  by  herself, 
through  the  dining-room,  into  the  conservatory  and 


290  SMALL    SOULS 

wept,  very  quietly,  swallowing  her  tears  behind  her 
handkerchief.  And  the  old  ladies  were  left  to- 
gether, the  two  mothers,  so  different  one  from  the 
other:  one,  Mrs.  van  Lowe,  a  woman  who  perhaps 
had  seen  much  more  of  life  and  understood  it  better 
than  the  other,  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke,  who  had  al- 
ways lived  quietly,  always  at  Driebergen,  with  her 
Bible  .  .  .  until  the  strange  book  had  fallen  into 
her  hands.  .  .  . 

They  were  left  together  and  the  very  many  things 
which  they  said  to  each  other  and  asked  of  each  other, 
in  silence,  were  not  audible  in  the  simple  words  of 
Constance'  mother: 

"  May  I  help  you  take  off  your  hat  and  your 
cloak,  mevrouw?  " 

And,  as  she  assisted  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke,  she 
apologized  for  Constance  and  said: 

"  I  think  your  arrival  must  have  agitated  her;  you 
must  not  mind  her  leaving  you  for  a  moment.  .  .  ." 

Then  the  old  ladies  sat  down  side  by  side. 

"  They  seem  to  be  very  comfortable,"  said  Mrs. 
van  der  Welcke  and  looked  around  her  nervously. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  have  my  child  back  with  me," 
said  Mrs.  van  Lowe. 

There  was  very  much  to  be  said  between  them, 
but  they  spoke  only  simple  words,  doubtless  feeling 
all  the  unuttered  rest.  Their  thoughts  went  back, 
many  years  back:  how  hostile  they  had  then  felt 
towards  each  other's  children,  who  had  disgraced 
each  other  and  their  two  families;  if  they  had  met 
each  other  then  by  chance,  as  now,  they  could  not 


SMALL   SOULS  291 

possibly  have  looked  at  each  other  gently,  as  now. 
.  .  .  But  the  years  had  toned  down  the  pain  and 
the  cruelty;  and  now  it  was  possible  and  ever,  agree- 
able for  these  two,  mother  and  mother,  to  press  each 
other's  hands  and  to  exchange  glances  that  asked 
for  forgiveness. 

"  I  also  came  to  wish  Henri  many  happy  returns. 
He  is  sure  to  be  back  with  Addie  for  lunch,"  said 
Mrs.  van  Lowe. 

But  Constance  returned;  and  now,  in  her  own 
house,  in  her  own  drawing-room,  she  felt  shy  and 
quite  different  from  what  she  felt  when,  offended 
and  slighted,  she  had  stood  before  Henri's  parents, 
at  Driebergen,  on  that  first  and  only  visit.  It  was 
as  though  the  combined  presence  of  those  two  moth- 
ers made  her  like  to  a  child  that  had  done  wrong.  (/ 
She  felt  as  she  had  never  felt  before,  felt  small  and 
.childlike;  and,  when,  as  was  often  her  habit,  she 
went  to  sit  close  by  Mrs.  van  Lowe,  she  took  her 
mother's  hand  and  laid  her  head  upon  her  mother's 
breast  and  no  longer  controlled  herself,  but  wept. 

And  Mrs.  van  Lowe  again  looked  at  Henri's 
mother,  as  though  she  wished  to  say: 

"  If  it  can  be,  do  not  condemn  my  child  too  se- 
verely, even  as  I  do  not  judge  Henri  too  severely." 

And,  because  there  now  flowed  through  her  soul 
a  gentle  happiness  that  had  its  source  in  contentment, 
Constance  felt  the  poignancy  of  that  moment  of 
Henri's  home-coming  when,  tired  after  his  ride,  he 
walked  in  with  Addie  and  found  his  mother  there, 
his  mother,  who  never  left  her  house,  sitting  there 


292  SMALL    SOULS 

in    his    house,    between    Constance    and    Mrs.    van 
Lowe.  .  .  . 

Had  some  bond  really  been  established  at  last, 
after  long  years?  Had  those  who  could  find  no 
point  of  union  that  other  morning,  at  Driebergen, 
at  last  come  closer?  Was  there  really  some  sort  of 
tie?  And  was  it  just  that  it  took  a  very  long  time 
— years  and  years  and  then  months  after  that — for 
things  to  become  more  or  less  easy  and  pleasant? 
...  In  this  mood,  Constance'  voice  instinctively 
had  a  softer  note;  and  she  felt  at  the  same  time  a 
child  to  those  two  mothers  and  very  old  to  herself, 
very  old  in  this  lulling  of  passion  and  anger  and 
nerves.  Would  it  be  like  this  with  her  now,  would 
her  life  just  go  on  in  a  succession  of  more  and  more 
placid  years,  would  she  just  live  for  her  son?  She 
asked  herself  this,  deep  down  in  her  soul,  almost 
unconsciously;  and  a  shadowy  melancholy  floated 
over  her,  because  of  those  two  old  mothers,  because 
of  Henri,  because  of  herself.  Was  that  how  old 
age  approached,  like  this,  with  these  gentler  years? 
She  was  forty-two,  she  was  not  old,  but,  still,  was 
old  age  approaching  in  this  way,  so  softly?  And, 
while  she  asked  herself  this,  in  a  passive,  melancholy 
mood,  devoid  of  anger  and  passion,  there  hovered 
about  her  a  vague  feeling  that  she  would  now  grow 
old  and  that  she  had  never  lived.  .  .  .  Never  lived. 
.  .  .  Never  lived.  ...  It  hovered,  that  shad- 
owy discontent,  in  the  midst  of  her  gentle  content. 
.  .  .  Never  lived.  .  .  .  She  did  not  know  why, 


SMALL    SOULS  293 

but  she  thought  for  just  one  moment — a  ghost  of  a 
thought — of  Gerrit,  of  Buitenzorg,  how  they  two, 
the  little  brother  and  sister,  used  to  play  in  the  river. 
...  It  was  as  if  it  had  not  been  she,  that  little  girl 
with  the  red  flowers,  as  if  it  had  been  another  little 
girl.  .  .  .  Never  lived.  .  .  .  But  what  ought  she 
to  have  done  to  feel  that  she  had  lived,  now  that  she 
was  growing  old?  Vanity,  balls,  her  marriage, 
Rome,  her  love-affair,  the  scandal:  was  that  living? 
Or  was  it  all  a  mistake,  mistake  upon  mistake,  fuss 
and  excitement  about  nothing?  .  .  .  Now,  now  it 
was  over.  Existence  was  becoming  placid,  less  bit- 
ter, more  kindly;  but,  still,  she  felt  it,  she  had  never 
lived.  .  .  . 

But  she  did  not  know  what  she  ought  to  have  done 
to  make  her  now  feel  that  she  had  lived;  and  she 
let  the  strange  feeling  be  lulled  to  rest  in  the  soft 
melancholy  that  filled  her,  because  of  this  gentle 
kindliness  that  had  come  now,  with  the  years,  the 
grey  haze  of  years.  She  sighed  the  strange  thought 
away  and  she  thought  that  it  had  to  happen  and  that 
it  could  not  have  been  otherwise  and  that  even  so 
she  would  never  have  known  anything  different.  .  .  . 
Never  lived.  .  .  .  But,  then,  had  hundreds  of  men 
and  women  around  her  ever  lived?  .  .  .  And  she 
now  shook  herself  free  of  this  strange  mood;  and, 
laughing  softly,  happy  in  spite  of  her  melancholy, 
she  saw  that  the  table  was  laid  and  asked  the  two 
mothers  to  come  in  to  lunch. 

Was  it  the  grey  haze  of  years  then?  .  .  .     Was 


294  SMALL    SOULS 

she  growing  old  and  were  things  becoming  easier 
and  more  pleasant?  .  .  .  And  had  she  never 
lived?  .  .  . 

"  I  do  think  it  so  very  nice,"  she  said,  "  to  have 
both  the  Mammas  together  at  my  table.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IN  a  small  town  like  the  Hague,  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  Constance  and  her  husband,  after  many 
years,  could  not  but  be  the  occasion  for  an  inter- 
change of  gossip  that  was  not  easily  silenced.  The 
Van  Lowe  family  had  connections  in  various  sets — 
the  aristocratic  set,  the  upper  official  world,  the  mili- 
tary set,  the  Indian  set — and,  just  because  of  these 
connections  in  more  than  one  set,  there  arose  a  cross- 
fire of  criticism  and  condemnation,  neither  of  which 
had  lost  any  of  its  sharpness,  even  though  people 
had  not  given  a  thought  to  Constance  for  years.  On 
the  contrary,  the  gossip  was  a  sort  of  raking  up  of  all 
that  could  be  remembered  of  former  days,  a  repeti- 
tion of  all  the  criticism  and  all  the  condemnation 
which  these  very  people,  for  the  most  part,  fifteen 
years  ago,  had  passed  among  themselves,  from  one 
to  another,  as  so  much  current  coin.  If  it  had  some- 
times seemed  to  Constance  as  though  the  period  of 
her  absence  contracted  and  was  no  longer  twenty 
years,  to  all  those  people  who  knew  her,  or  knew 
her  relations,  or  knew  relations  of  her  relations,  that 
interval  had  no  existence  whatever;  and  it  was  as 
though  the  scandal  dated  from  yesterday,  as  though 
shfe  had  married  her  lover,  Van  der  Welcke,  yester- 
day. And,  while  she  herself,  in  her  gentle  happi- 
ness and  melancholy  contentment  at  being  back 
among  her  kinsfolk,  in  her  country,  for  which  she 

295 


296  SMALL    SOULS 

had  longed  so  greatly  abroad,  while  she  noticed 
nothing  of  this  cross-fire,  through  which  she  walked 
quietly — in  the  street,  at  the  time  of  the  two  wed- 
dings, at  Scheveningen  and  now — it  continued  among 
all  those  people — acquaintances,  friends,  relations — 
continued,  never  ceased  fire.  To  all  of  them  she 
had  remained  the  Mrs.  De  Staffelaer  of  old,  who 
had  never  returned  to  the  Hague  since  her  marriage 
and  who  was  now  back  with  Van  der  Welcke.  At 
visits,  at  tea-parties,  at  evening-parties,  at  the  Witte 
or  the  Plaats,  at  Scheveningen,  everywhere,  the 
rapid  cross-fire  began,  as  a  pleasant  sport  for  all  of 
them: 

"  You  know,  Mrs.  De  Staffelaer.  .  .  ." 

"  Van  Lowe  that  was.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,    the    one    who    went    off    with    Van    der 
Welcke.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  remember:  she  married  him.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  she's  back." 

"  Yes,  so  I  hear." 

"  Yes,  she  was  out  driving  yesterday  with  old 
Mrs.  van  Lowe." 

"  So  she's  back  again?  " 

"Yes,  she's  back!" 

;  In  this  way  the  cross-fire  began,  suavely  and  rap- 
idly, as  a  conversational  sport. 

"  And  so  she  is  received  by  her  relations?  " 

"  Yes.     And  even  at  Driebergen." 

"Is  it  really  twenty  years  ago?" 

"  No,  it  can't  be  as  long  as  that," 

"  She  has  a  child." 


SMALL   SOULS  297 

"  Yes,  a  boy ;  but  not  by  Van  der  Welcke." 

"  The  father's  an  Italian,  I  hear." 

"  Yes,  an  Italian  diplomatist." 

In  this  way  the  fire  continued,  brisk,  crackling, 
fiercer  and  fiercer,  until  it  went  off  like  a  brilliant  and 
acrid  fire-work: 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  the  family  will  like  that  so 
very  much !  " 

"  You  need  only  look  at  Van  Naghel's  face  .  .  ." 

"  Or  at  the  Van  Saetzemas'." 

"  Why  don't  they  keep  her  in  the  background?  " 

"  Yes.  What  did  she  want  to  come  back  for  at 
all?" 

"  I  call  it  an  impertinence." 

"  She  was  always  intriguing  as  a  young  girl." 

"  That  marriage  with  old  De  Staffelaer.  .  .  ." 

"  And  what  is  she  ferreting  round  for  now?  " 

"  Yes,  what  on  earth  is  she  ferreting  round  for 
in  the  Hague?" 

And  they  ferreted  round  for  what  she  was  fer- 
reting round  for  in  the  Hague.     They  ferreted  very     ^ 
deep,  very  far,  after  the  brilliant  cross-fire;  they  dug 
up,  among  themselves,  all  the  sand  of  their  suspicions 
and  flung  it  about  one  another's  ears: 

"  They  had  a  very  expensive  establishment  abroad 
and  were  unable  to  keep  it  going  any  longer." 

"  She  wants  to  be  near  her  mother  because  she's 
afraid  that,  when  the  mother  dies,  there  will  be 
trouble  about  the  will." 

"  It  was  he  who  wanted  to  come  back,  for  the 
sake  of  an  old  mistress  of  his." 


298  SMALL   SOULS 

"  She  wants  to  go  to  Court." 

"  No,  it's  he  who  wants  to  go  to  Court." 

"  Yes,  they  both  want  to  go  to  Court." 

"  She  wants  to  go  to  Court.  .  .  ." 

"  She  wants  to  go  to  Court.  .  .  ." 

"  She  wants  to  go  to  Court.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  a  piece  of  impudence  1  " 

"  Even  if  she  was  in  that  set  once  .  .  ." 

"  That  is  no  reason  .  .  ." 

"  Why  she  should  dream  .  .  ." 

"  Of  being  presented  .  .  ." 

"Now.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  you'll  see :  this  winter  .  .  ." 

"  She  wants  to  go  to  Court.  .  .  ." 

11  To  Court.  .  .  ." 

"  But  that's  not  the  only  reason." 

"  No,  he  too  is  afraid  that  his  parents  will  disin- 
herit him,  as  far  as  they  can  .  .  ." 

"  And  now  he  proposes  .  .  ." 

"  To  soften  them,  by  means  of  the  child  .  .  ." 

"Which  isn't  even  his!" 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  " 

;<  The  old  people  don't  know !  .  .  ." 

And  they  ferreted  very  industriously  and  dug  up 
the  sand  and  kept  up  their  cross-fire  as  a  sport  for 
the  tea-parties  and  evening-parties,  at  the  Club  and 
at  Scheveningen. 

"  Look  here,"  said  others,  "  Van  der  Welcke  be- 
haved like  a  gentleman." 

"What!  To  run  away  with  another  man's 
wife?" 


SMALL   SOULS  299 

"  No,  but  to  marry  her  afterwards." 

"  There  aren't  many  who  would  have  done  it." 

"  She's  older  than  he." 

"  Six  years  older." 

"  No,  four  years." 

"  No  one  else  would  have  done  it." 

"  No,  no  one." 

"  And  he  was  a  deucedly  decent  fellow." 

"  Always  was." 

"  Always  was." 

"  She  was  older  than  he,  she  knew  the  world  .  .  ." 

"  And  she  seduced  him;  he  was  quite  a  youngster." 

It  all  sounded  as  though  the  years,  the  many 
years,  had  never  existed. 

"  Yes,  but,  you  know,  it's  sometimes  difficult,  for 
a  woman  who's  young  and  pretty  .  .  ." 

"  Then  why  did  she  marry  such  an  old  man?  " 

"  Out  of  vanity,  nothing  but  vanity." 

They  judged,  defended  and  condemned  her  as 
though  the  years,  the  many  years,  had  never  ex- 
isted. 

The  acquaintances  of  the  Van  Lowes,  or  of  their 
acquaintances,  or  the  relations  of  their  relations  were 
no  worse  than  other  people.  But  they  met  one  an- 
other at  tea-parties  and  at  evening-parties,  at  the 
Witte  and  at  Scheveningen,  and  they  must  have  food 
for  conversation.  Whatever  important  things 
might  be  happening  in  the  world,  the  one  interest, 
when  all  was  said,  was  to  discuss,  over  and  over 
again,  a  case  like  that  of  Constance.  They  disliked 
neither  her  nor  Van  der  Welcke ;  and  her  case  even 


300  SMALL    SOULS 

attracted  their  interest,  if  not  their  sympathies. 
Only,  the  Van  der  Welckes  must  not  think  that  their 
memory  was  so  poor  that  they  did  not  remember 
the  "  case  "  jolly  well.  .  .  .  Only,  the  Van  der 
Welckes  ought  not  to  have  come  back  to  the  Hague, 
bringing  fresh  scandal  into  the  exalted  morality  of 
the  different  Hague  sets.  .  .  .  Only,  there  must 
be  no  question  that  people  who  were  so  much  talked 
about  should  dream  of  being  presented  to 
Court.  .  .  . 

"  And  nevertheless  they  do  intend  to  be  pre- 
sented. .  .  ." 

Constance,  in  her  quiet  happiness,  noticed  none  of 
it ;  and  Van  der  Welcke,  who,  at  the  club,  was  within 
nearer  range  of  the  cross-fire,  did  indeed  sometimes 
observe  a  look  and  gesture,  sometimes  overheard  a 
word,  but  thought  it  of  no  consequence,  even  when 
it  caused  him  a  moment's  irritation. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AFTER  the  summer  holidays,  Addle,  who  was  now 
in  the  third  class  at  the  Grammar  School,  sometimes 
went  to  his  Van  Saetzema  cousins  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, rather  against  the  grain,  for  there  was  not 
much  love  lost  between  them.  But,  as  he  had  not 
failed  to  notice  that  the  three  boys  tired  his  mother  ]/ 
greatly  when  they  came  to  the  little  house,  however 
much  she  liked  to  keep  up  the  relationship,  he  made 
it  a  sort  of  duty  to  go  to  them  once  a  fortnight,  or 
so,  either  for  a  walk  or  for  a  bicycle-ride.  It  was 
more  natural  to  him  to  go  about  with  boys  who  were  , 
his  seniors;  he  had  made  a  couple  of  older  friends 
at  the  Grammar  School ;  and  even  Frans  and  Henri 
van  Naghel,  who  were  young  fellows  of  twenty-three 
and  twenty-four,  said  that  it  might  sound  very  funny, 
but  they  always  thought  it  jolly  when  Addie  looked 
in.  But,  to  please  his  mother,  who  disapproved  of 
this  tendency  to  spend  his  time  with  his  elders,  he 
would  go  and  walk  or  bicycle  with  the  three  Van 
Saetzemas,  while  despising  them  in  his  heart  for  un- 
mannerly young  louts,  stupid  as  well  as  ill-bred  and, 
in  addition,  having  their  mouths  ever  full  of  coarse 
talk  and  suggestive  jokes.  They  were  not  fond  of 
Addie,  but  they  looked  up  to  him  a  little,  just  be- 
cause they  knew  that  the  older  cousins,  the  Van 
Naghels,  the  undergraduates,  thought  Addie  a  nice 
boy,  though  he  was  as  young  as  the  Van  Saetzemas, 

301 


302  SMALL    SOULS 

while  looking  upon  the  Van  Saetzemas  themselves 
as  mere  brats  not  worth  noticing.  But,  for  this 
very  reason,  they  did  not  see  how  Addie  could  care 
to  go  to  Uncle  Gerrit's  and  play  with  all  those  babies 
there.  They  thought  him  a  queer  boy,  they  did  not 
really  like  him;  but  his  intimacy  with  Frans  and 
Henri  van  Naghel  gave  Addie  a  sort  of  manly, 
grown-up  air  which  they  secretly  envied.  And  so, 
in  order,  in  their  turn,  to  appear  manly  and  grown- 
up before  Addie,  they  could  never,  walking  or  bi- 
cycling, pass  a  woman  without  exchanging  a  coarse 
word  or  phrase  or  disapproval,  like  young  men- 
about-town  who  know  all  about  everything. 

Then  Addie  chuckled  inside  himself,  for  he  could 
never  laugh  outright,  even  though  he  wanted  to : 

'  You  fellows  sometimes  call  me  an  old  fogey," 
he  said,  "  but,  whenever  you  pass  a  woman,  you 
talk  like  old  fogeys  of  things  you  know  nothing 
about." 

"  Oh,  do  you  know  more  than  we  do?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that,  but  I  haven't  my  mouth  always 
full  of  it." 

Then  they  were  angry,  because  their  assumption 
of  rakishness  made  no  impression,  and  they  did  not 
understand  how  Addie  could  flatly  admit  his  inno- 
cence and  ignorance.  They,  on  the  contrary,  were 
ashamed  of  their  innocence  and  ignorance,  were 
burning  to  lose  both  as  quickly  as  possible,  had  not 
the  courage  to  do  so  yet,  though  they  sometimes  did 
go  down  the  Spuistraat  of  an  evening.  And  Addie 
thought  to  himself: 


SMALL    SOULS  303 

"  Mamma  ought  just  to  hear  them,  or  to  see  them 
lounging  along  the  streets;  then  she  wouldn't  ask 
me  every  Sunday  if  I  have  been  out  with  Jaap  and 
Piet  and  Chris!" 

And,  though  they  did  not  like  Addie,  they  were 
flattered  when  he  came  and  asked: 

"  Are  you  fellows  coming  for  a  ride  this  after- 
noon? " 

They  did  not  like  him  and  they  gave  him  all  sorts 
of  nicknames  among  themselves:  Old  Fogey,  the 
Baron,  the  Italian.  .  .  . 

Then  Marietje  would  ask,  gently: 

"  Why  do  you  always  talk  so  unkindly  of  Ad- 
die?" 

And  then  the  three  boys  laughed  and  teased 
Marietje  with  being  in  love  with  "  the  Baron." 

But  Marietje,  who  was  sixteen,  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  feeling  grown-up  already:  in  a  year's  time, 
she  was  going  to  boarding-school,  near  Cleves.  No, 
she,  who  was  sixteen,  was  not  in  love  with  a  little 
cousin  of  thirteen,  with  a  child;  but  she  thought  him 
a  nice  boy  all  the  same.  The  three  brothers  and 
their  friends  had  never  danced,  or  talked,  or  bi- 
cycled with  her,  or  paid  her  any  attention,  whereas 
Addie  behaved  like  a  gallant  young  cavalier.  In 
that  noisy,  fussy,  bawling  household,  the  girl  had 
always  been  a  little  fragile,  a  little  pale,  a  little  quiet, 
like  a  small,  gentle  alien  that  could  not  cope  with 
the  hard  voices  of  Mamma  and  the  sisters  and 
the  rough  horseplay  of  the  brothers;  and  Addie 
talked  so  nicely,  so  pleasantly,  so  politely,  so  gal- 


3o4  SMALL   SOULS 

lantly,  so  very  differently  from  Chris  and  Piet  and 
Jaap. 

"  The  Italian  wasn't  here  last  Sunday." 

"  Then  he's  sure  to  come  to-day." 

"  He  always  comes  once  a  fortnight." 

"  That's  the  Italian  fashion." 

"  Why  do  you  boys  always  call  Addie  the  Ital- 
ian? "  asked  Marletje. 

Now  the  three  burst  with  laughing: 

"  That's  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"  Little  girls  shouldn't  ask  questions." 

"  I  think  it  a  silly  nickname,"  said  Marietje,  "  and 
it  means  nothing." 

They  burst  out  laughing  again,  full  of  importance 
and  worldly  wisdom. 

"  That's  because  you  don't  know." 

"  If  you  knew,  you'd  think  it  witty  enough." 

"  It's  a  damned  witty  nickname." 

"  Chris,  what  language !  " 

"  So  you  want  to  know  why  Addie  is  an  Italian?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  played  the  grown-up 
sister: 

"  I  think  you're  silly,  just  like  children.  That 
nickname  means  nothing." 

They  burst  with  laughter  once  more : 

"  Don't  you  know  what  they  do  in  Italy?  " 

"In  Rome?" 

She  looked  at  them,  her  louts  of  brothers;  she 
vaguely  remembered  incautiously-whispered  re- 
marks about  Aunt  Constance,  about  the  time  when 
she  was  still  the  wife  of  the  Netherlands  minister  at 


SMALL   SOULS  305 

Rome,  of  that  old  uncle  De  Staffelaer  whom  she  had 
never  known. 

"Well,  look  here:  what  do  you  think  the  name 
means?  .  .  ." 

She  grew  uncomfortable,  fearing  that  they  were 
suggesting  something  improper  which  she  did  not 
understand: 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  care." 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  call  it  a  silly  name." 

But  now  Marietje  was  really  interested  and  so 
she  asked  Caroline,  a  little  later: 

"  Do  you  know  why  the  boys  call  Addle  the  Ital- 
ian? " 

"  Because  they're  silly,"  said  Caroline. 

"  No,  there  must  be  some  reason,  but  they 
wouldn't  tell  me." 

Now  Carolientje  was  puzzled  in  her  turn  and  she 
asked  her  mother,  later: 

"  Why  are  the  boys  always  calling  Addle  the  Ital- 
ian, Mamma?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Adolphine,  sharply. 

But  the  girls,  both  curious,  continued  to  talk  about 
the  nickname  and  they  sounded  Karel  and  also 
Marianne  and  Marietje  van  Naghel. 

No,  none  of  them,  either,  knew  what  the  name 
meant.  But  Karel  was  determined  to  find  out  and 
did  find  out : 

"  I  know,"  he  said  to  his  little  sister,  Marie. 

"  I  know,"  Marie  whispered  to  the  Van  Saet- 
zema  girls. 

But  Marietje  van  Saetzema  did  not  yet  quite  un- 


306  SMALL    SOULS 

derstand,  but  she  would  not  let  this  appear,  because 
Caroline  would  have  thought  her  such  a  baby.  If 
Auntie  had  never  married  an  Italian,  how  could  she 
have  a  son  who  was  an  Italian? 

The  nickname  came  to  the  ears  of  Herman  Ruy- 
venaer,  the  youngest  son  of  Uncle  and  Aunt,  a  lean 
little  brown  sinjo  of  fifteen,  who  mentioned  the 
nickname  at  home  to  his  sisters  Toetie,  Dot  and 
Pop. 

"Allah,  it's  too  bad!"  said  the  girls.  "It's 
a  shame  of  those  boys,  Mamma;  just  listen.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Aunt  Ruy- 
venaer,  when  she  heard.  "Gossip,  I  say;  kassian, 
Constance !  " 

But  Uncle  Ruyvenaer  told  her  that  it  was  so. 

"  But  how  do  you  know?  " 

"  Adolphine  told  me  herself." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  she  wasn't  there  I  ...  Kassian, 
that  boy  and  his  mother!  " 

And  Aunt  Lot  and  the  girls  refused  to  believe, 
were  indignant;  and  Auntie  called  her  husband  an 
old  gossip.  But  the  nickname  was  often  on  the  lips 
of  the  young  boy-  and  girl-cousins  and  of  their 
friends  at  home  and  at  school.  Once,  Addie  thought 
he  heard  a  boy  shout  to  him,  by  way  of  an  abusive 
epithet : 

"Italian!" 

He  did  not  understand-,  did  not  even  apply  the 
word  to  himself  and  walked  on. 

Another  time,  however,  bicycling  with  the  Van 
Saetzema  boys,  along  the  Wassenaar  Road,  he  grew 


SMALL    SOULS  307 

angry  because  Jaap  was  trying  his  hardest  to  run 
over  a  cat: 

"  Leave  the  animal  alone,"  cried  Addie,  furiously, 
"  or  I'll  punch  your  head !  " 

"  Oh?  "  roared  Jaap.  "  You  would,  would  you, 
Italian?" 

Addie  did  not  yet  understand.  But  he  had  a  vague 
recollection  of  hearing  the  name  before.  He  did 
not  at  once  recall  the  incident  of  that  other  boy: 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  an  Italian?  "  he  asked. 

The  others  were  frightened,  pulled  Jaap's  sleeve. 
1  That's  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  growled  Jaap, 
taken  aback.     "  You  say  you're  going  to  punch  my 
head." 

But  Addie,  in  a  flash,  remembered  the  boy  and 
that  shout  in  the  street  near  the  school  : 

"  Out  with  it !  "  he  cried.  "  Why  do  you  call  me 
an  Italian?  " 

Chris  and  Piet  tried  to  smooth  things  over : 

"  Come,  don't  bother;  he's  talking  rot." 

"  But  why  an  Italian?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing!  " 
'  Yes,  there's  something.     I  mean  to  know  I  " 

"  Keep  your  hair  on;  it's  nothing." 

"  Out  with  it!  "  cried  Addie,  scarlet  with  rage. 

And  he  flew  at  Jaap's  throat. 

"  Oh,  hang  it !     Shut  up !  "  shouted  the  two  others. 

But  Jaap  and  Addie  were  struggling.  Their  boy- 
ish hatred  suddenly  burst  forth : 

"  Out  with  it!     Why  do  you  call  me  an  Italian?  " 

Addie  was  very  strong,  stronger  than  Jaap,  who 


3o8  SMALL    SOULS 

was  a  year  and  a  half  older  than  he  and  taller.  He 
got  him  down:  his  small,  hard  knuckles  were  at 
Jaap's  throat;  and  he  was  nearly  strangling  him. 
The  others  pulled  him  off: 

"That'll  do,  I  say!     Shut  up!" 

They  pulled  Addie  away  from  Jaap;  and  now 
Jaap,  furious  because  he  had  been  beaten,  purple  in 
the  face,  half  choking,  unable  to  control  his  hate, 
cried  out: 

"  Because  you're  not  the  son  of  your  father!  " 

"Hold  your  jaw!"  shouted  Piet  and  Chris  to 
Jaap. 

But  the  word  was  spoken  and  Addie  was  like  a 
madman : 

"  You  hound !     You  hound !  "  he  yelled. 

And  he  tried  to  fling  himself  on  Jaap  again. 

The  two  other  boys  held  him  back.  And  a  sud- 
den reasonableness  came  to  soothe  Addie's  passion: 
he  must  not  let  himself  go  like  that,  against  that  cur 
of  a  Jaap.  When  that  young  bounder  lost  his  tem- 
per, he  didn't  know  what  he  shouted  and  raved, 
"  Italian !  "  and  "  Not  the  son  of  your  father !  " 
Addie  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  I've  had  enough  of  cycling  with  you  chaps.  I 
can  spend  my  Sundays  better  than  in  tormenting  cats 
and  quarrelling  and  fighting." 

And  he  sprang  on  his  bicycle  and  rode  away. 

"  Italian!  "  Jaap  screamed  after  him  once  more, 
forgetting  everything,  except  his  hatred. 

Addie  looked  round;  and  he  saw  that  Chris  and 


SMALL   SOULS  309 

Piet,  both  furious,  were  thrashing  the  very  life  out 
of  Jaap. 

He  rode  away,  mastering  his  nerves.  No,  he 
could  never  again,  to  please  Mamma,  spoil  his  Sun- 
day holiday  with  those  cads  of  boys.  This  was  the 
last  time,  for  good  and  all!  Besides,  he  felt  that 
they  liked  him  as  little  as  he  them.  And  then,  sud- 
denly, his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  strange  word, 
the  word  of  abuse,  and  to  the  boy  who,  once  before, 
had  shouted  it  after  him  in  the  street.  That  time, 
he  had  not  imagined  that  it  was  he  whom  the  boy 
meant. 

Try  as  he  would  to  keep  calm,  he  was  too  much 
excited  to  go  straight  home  and  perhaps  meet  Papa 
and  Mamma.  He  therefore  rode  to  the  Bezuiden- 
hout,  hoping  to  find  Frans  van  Naghel  in:  Henri 
was  not  at  the  Hague,  was  working  hard  at  Leiden. 

He  found  Frans  at  home,  in  the  two  elder  boys' 
sitting-room,  smoking  with  a  couple  of  friends. 

"  Well,  old  man,  what  is  it?  " 

And  he  took  Addle  outside. 

"  I've  been  fighting  with  that  cad  of  a  Jaap.  He 
called  me  an  Italian,  Frans.  What  did  he  mean?  " 

Frans  started;  and  Addie  noticed  it,  became  sus- 
picious. 

"Oh,  nothing,  old  man:  it's  just  that  he's  an 
ass!" 

"  No,  Frans,  there  must  be  some  reason  why  he 
called  me  that;  and  I  mean  to  know  the  reason." 

"  Don't  worry  about  it,  old  chap." 


3io  SMALL   SOULS 

"  And  the  other  fellows  licked  Jaap  because  he 
said  it.     And  then  Jaap  also  said  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  what  else  did  Jaap  say,  old  man?  " 

"  That  I  ...  that  I   was  not  the   son  of  my 
father." 

Suddenly,  while  he  was  unbosoming  himself  in  the 
warmth  of  Frans'  sympathy,  a  light  flashed  across 
him.  He  remembered  the  mysterious  fits  of  sad- 
ness of  Mamma's,  scenes  with  Papa,  during  those 
early  days  at  the  Hague,  when  he  had  vaguely  no- 
ticed in  his  mother  something  as  though  she  were 
asking  for  forgiveness,  humbling  herself  before 
Grandmamma,  before  the  uncles  and  aunts.  And 
all  this,  taken  in  connection  with  Papa  and  Mamma's 
former  residence  in  Italy,  in  Rome,  caused  to  flicker 
before  him  as  it  were  a  reflection  of  cruel  truths. 
As  he  looked  at  Frans,  these  cruel  truths  flickered 
up  before  him  again.  He  had  read  much  for  his 
years ;  his  school,  his  school-friends  had  soon  revealed 
some  of  the  mysteries  of  life  to  him,  though  he  was 
still  a  boy,  though  he  was  still  a  child,  with  a  child's 
innocence  in  his  soul  and  his  eyes,  with  the  soft 
bloom  of  that  innocence  on  his  child's  skin  and  his 
child's  mind,  even  though  there  was  something  of  a 
little  man  about  him.  And,  suddenly,  he  saw  every- 
thing: the  rage  of  the  boys  because  Jaap  had  given 
himself  away,  their  confusion  and  now  Frans'  con- 
fusion. .  .  . 

"  Not  the  son  of  your  father?"  repeated  Frans. 
"  They're  asses,  those  three  louts.  .  .  .  Come,  Ad- 
die,  don't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  those  clod- 


SMALL   SOULS  311 

hoppers.     When  they're  coarse,  they're  very  coarse 
and  they  don't  know  what  they're  saying." 

"  Yes,"  said  Addie,  with  sudden  reserve,  "  that's 
what  it  must  be,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  Come,  Addie,  come  for  a  walk,  will  you,  with  the 
two  Hijdrechts?  We  were  going  to  the  Witte;  but, 
if  you'll  come  with  us,  old  man,  we'll  go  to  Scheven- 
ingen  instead." 

The  boy's  senses  suddenly  became  very  acute  and 
he  heard  a  sort  of  pity  in  Frans'  voice.  He  began 
to  feel  very  unhappy,  because  of  that  pity,  restrained 
himself  spasmodically  from  sobbing,  gulped  it  all 
down:  all  about  Italy  and  that  he  was  not  the  child 
of  his  father.  And  he  hesitated  whether  he  had  bet- 
ter hide  somewhere,  all  alone,  or  stay  for  sympathy, 
with  Frans.  .  .  . 

"  Come  along,  old  man,  come  with  us,"  said 
Frans.  "  Then  we'll  go  to  Scheveningen." 

And  he  went  at  once  and  told  the  other  two  stu- 
dents, the  Hijdrechts,  of  the  change  of  plan. 

"  Then  I'll  leave  my  bicycle  here,"  said  Addie. 

He  went  with  the  three  young  men,  who,  for  his 
sake,  did  not  go  to  the  Witte;  and  they  walked  to 
Scheveningen.  And  it  was  as  though  he  heard  that 
note  of  pity  in  the  Hijdrechts'  voices  too.  Then, 
suddenly,  on  the  New  Road,  he  saw  the  three  Saet- 
zemas  cycling  back  to  the  Hague. 

'  There  are  our  three  nice  gentlemen,"  said  Frans. 

The  three  boys  nodded  as  they  passed: 

"  Be  jour!  " 

But  Addie  did  not  nod  back. 


312  SMALL    SOULS 

Scheveningen  was  overcrowded,  with  its  Sunday 
visitors;  but  the  Hijdrechts  were  quite  amusing  and 
Frans  was  always  pleasant. 

It  was  late,  close  upon  six,  when  he  decided  to  go 
home. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  old  man,"  said  Frans. 

Addie  pressed  Frans'  hand,  wanted  to  thank  him 
for  the  walk,  but  was  too  proud,  because  of  that 
pity,  and  could  not: 

"  I'll  come  and  fetch  my  bicycle  to-morrow,"  was 
all  he  said,  dully. 

And  he  went  home  slowly,  alone.  He  felt  as 
though  he  could  not  go  home;  as  though  he  would 
have  liked  to  walk  somewhere  else,  anything  to  es- 
cape going  home.  He  felt  as  though,  suddenly,  he 
had  to  drag  with  him  a  heavy  sorrow,  too  heavy  for 
his  years,  and  as  though  it  lay  on  his  chest,  on  his 
throat,  on  his  lungs.  But  he  reached  home  at  last, 
about  half-past  six. 

"  How  late  you  are,  Addie,"  said  Constance,  a  lit- 
tle annoyed.  "  We've  been  waiting  for  you  for  the 
last  half  hour.  Have  you  been  with  the  three 
boys?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Addie. 

"  Oh,  then,  it's  all  right,"  she  said. 

They  sat  down  to  dinner,  but  Addie  was  quiet, 
did  not  eat. 

"  What  is  it,  my  boy?  "  asked  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Addie. 

But  his  parents  were  not  used  to  seeing  their  child 


SMALL   SOULS  313 

like  that  and  insisted  on  knowing  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. 

"  I've  been  fighting  with  Jaap,"  said  Addie. 

Constance,  already  a  little  annoyed,  flared  up  at 
once: 

"Fighting?  Fighting?  What  about,  Addie? 
There's  always  something  with  the  three  boys." 

"  Oh,  nothing!  "  said  Addie,  evasively. 

"  Come,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  "  all  boys  have  a 
fight  now  and  again." 

But  Addie  did  not  speak,  remained  stiff  and  silent. 
He  did  not  answer,  would  not  say  why  he  had  fought 
with  Jaap.  And  he  was  reasonable,  tried  to  eat 
something,  so  as  not  to  upset  his  mother;  but  the 
food  stuck  in  his  throat.  They  hurried  through 
dinner.  When  Addie  was  gloomy,  everything  was 
gloomy,  there  was  nothing  left,  life  was  not  worth 
the  dismal  living,  Constance'  new  and  gentle  happi- 
ness was  gone,  gone.  .  .  . 

"  Shall  we  go  and  bicycle  a  bit,  my  boy?  "  asked 
Van  der  Welcke.  "  Or  are  you  tired?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  tired." 

"  Remember,  Addie,"  said  Constance,  coldly, 
"  that  we  are  going  to  Grandmamma's  and  that  you 
have  to  change." 

"  Yes." 

He  got  up,  went  upstairs,  to  his  boy's  room,  not 
knowing  what  to  say  next,  what  to  do  with  himself, 
where  to  sit,  what  book  to  take  up;  he  remained 
standing,  aimlessly,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 


3i4  SMALL    SOULS 

that  bottled-up  sorrow  of  a  whole  afternoon  lying 
heavy  on  his  chest  and  lungs:  that  sorrow  which  he 
had  dragged  with  Frans  and  the  Hijdrechts  to 
Scheveningen,  quietly,  without  sobbing,  amid  that 
bustling  crowd  of  Sunday  visitors. 

He  stood  there,  aimlessly,  dejected,  when  the  door 
opened  and  Van  der  Welcke  entered: 

"  Come,  Addie,  my  boy,  tell  your  father.  What 
is  it?" 

"  Papa,"  he  began,  yearning  now,  burning  to 
know.  .  .  . 

But  he  could  not  go  on.  It  was  his  first  sorrow 
and  it  was  so  heavy,  so  oppressively  heavy. 

"  Come,  my  lad,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Papa  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me,  come  on,  tell  me." 

"  Papa,  am  I  not  .  .  ." 

"What,  Addie?" 

"  Papa,  am  I  not  your  child?  " 

Van  der  Welcke  looked  at  him  in  astonishment: 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  and  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"  No,  I'm  not,  am  I?     Yes,  I  know  now!  " 

"  Look  here,  Addie,  what's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"  I'm  not  your  child,  am  I  ?  " 

"  You're  not  my  child?     What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I'm  the  child  of  an  Italian,  am  I  not?  " 

"Of  an  Italian?" 

"  And  that's  why  they  call  me  the  Italian?  " 

Van  der  Welcke,  in  his  amazement,  did  not  know 


SMALL    SOULS  315 

what  to  say.     He  stared  at  Addie;  and  his  silence 
meant  confession  to  Addie. 

"  I  am  Mamma's  child,  am  I  not,  but  not  yours? 
I  am  the  child  of  an  Italian.  .  .  ." 

"  My  boy,  who  told  you  that?  " 

"  Jaap." 

"  But,  Addie,  it's  not  true !  " 

"  Oh,  you  only  say  that  it's  not  true,  but  it  is 
true.  .  .  ." 

But  now  Van  der  Welcke,  after  his  first  amaze- 
ment, suddenly  realized  the  boy's  distress  and  caught 
him  in  his  arms  and  took  him  o.n  his  knees,  there,  in 
the  big  chair: 

"  Addie,  Addie,  I  swear  to  you,  it's  not  true !  My 
child,  it's  not  true,  you  are  my  child,  you  are  my  boy, 
you  are  mine,  you  are  mine,  mine,  mine !  " 

"  Is  it  really  true?" 

'  You're  mine,  you're  mine,  Addie !  They  lie, 
they  lie !  Good  Lord !  My  boy,  would  I  love  you 
so  madly,  if  you  were  not  my  boy?  " 

And  he  pressed  his  son  to  his  breast,  his  two  arms 
tightly  round  him. 

"  Papa,  can  I  trust  you?  " 

'  Yes,  yes,  my  boy !  God !  Those  vile  people ! 
Who  says  it  and  why  do  they  say  it?  And  it's  a  lie, 
Addie;  they  lie,  they  lie.  You're  my  child,  mine, 
mine  alone,  my  son  and  Mamma's  son,  my  child,  my 
darling!  Would  we,  your  two  parents,  your  father 
and  your  mother,  be  so  fond  of  you,  so  passionately 
fond  of  you,  if  it  were  not  so?  " 

Now  Addie  believed  and  he  burst  into  sobs.     He 


316  SMALL    SOULS 

sobbed  freely,  he  could  no  longer  restrain  himself 
and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  sobbing  for  the  first  time 
in  his  young  life.  It  melted  away,  all  his  young, 
small,  natural  manliness  melted  away;  and  he  be- 
came as  weak  as  a  child,  because  Papa  assured  him 
that  he  was  the  son  of  Papa  and  Mamma  and  be- 
cause he  believed  Papa,  now.  He  sobbed  wildly  on 
'his  father's  chest,  clutching  Van  der  Welcke  in  his 
sturdy  Ijttle  arms,  until  both  of  them  were  nearly 
stifled: 

"Daddy,  my  Daddy!"  he  said,  in  little  jerks. 
"  Am  I  really  your  child?  Oh,  tell  me  again:  am  I 
your  child?  The  whole  day  long,  Daddy,  I  believed 
I  was  not  your  child!  The  whole  day  long,  I  was 
walking  with  Frans  and  the  Hijdrechts,  thinking  I 
was  not  your  son.  And  I  didn't  want  to  come 
back  home,  because  I  thought  I  was  not  your  son. 
I  wanted  just  to  go  away  somewhere,  because  I 
thought  I  was  not  your  son.  Daddy,  tell  me,  am  I 
your  son?  Oh,  I  should  have  thought  it  so  terrible 
if  I  was  not  your  son !  I  should  have  thought  it  so 
terrible,  because  I  love  you  so  and  because  everything 
would  have  been  for  nothing  then,  if  you  weren't 
my  father.  They  said  that  my  father  was  an  Ital- 
ian and  that  you,  that  you  were  not  my  father.  Tell 
me  again,  Daddy:  are  you  my  father?  " 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  I  am  your  father." 

He  said  it  now  with  such  conviction  that  Addie 
believed  him  absolutely.  But  the  child  still  clasped 
his  father  to  him,  as  though  he  would  never  let  him 
go- 


SMALL    SOULS  317 

"  Addle,  how  could  you,  how  could  you  believe  it 
for  a  moment?  " 

"  But  then  why  do  people  say  it?  " 

"  Because  they  are  spiteful." 

"  But  why  do  people  say  it?  " 

There  was  still  a  lurking  suspicion  in  him.  If  he 
was  not  the  son  of  an  Italian,  why  did  people  talk 
about  his  parents'  past,  years  ago,  at  Rome.  And, 
though  he  believed  Papa  now,  there  was  still  much 
suspicion  in  him  and  he  kept  on  saying  to  himself: 

"  But  then  why  do  people  say  it?  .  .  ." 

It  tossed  about  in  his  mind,  that  there  must  be 
something  that  Papa  was  keeping  back.  But  he 
believed,  he  wanted  to  believe  Papa :  yes,  yes,  he  was 
Papa's  child.  And  that  was  his  great  content,  after 
the  sorrow  which  he  had  suffered  a  whole  day  long: 
that  he  had  not  loved  Papa  for  nothing,  that  he  was 
the  child  of  the  man  whom  he  loved.  .  .  . 

"Addie!" 

It  was  Constance  calling  from  downstairs. 

"Hush!"  said  Van  der  Welcke.  "Hush,  my 
boy !  Say  nothing  to  Mamma,  let  Mamma  see  noth- 
ing, for  it  would  cause  her  so  much  pain,  unneces- 
sarily ;  and  you  do  believe  me  now,  don't  you  ?  You 
do  believe  me  now,  when  I  assure  you  that  I  couldn't 
possibly,  Addie,  couldn't  possibly  be  so  fond  of  you 
else?" 

Yes,  he  now  believed  his  father's  word,  which  he 
felt  to  be  the  truth;  he  believed,  but  still,  still  there 
was  something.  But  he  did  not  want  to  ask  any- 
thing more  now:  Papa  himself  was  too  much  upset; 


3i8  SMALL    SOULS 

and  they  had  to  go  out,  to  Grandmamma's,  because 
it  was  Sunday  evening. 

"Addie!" 

"Go  down  now,  Addie:  Mamma's  calling  you." 

He  went  out  on  the  landing: 

"  Yes,  Mamma,  what  time  is  it?  " 

"  It's  time  to  dress." 

"  Yes,  I'll  get  dressed  at  once,  Mamma." 

He  became  a  little  man  again,  while  his  eyes  were 
still  screwed  up  and  red  witfr  crying. 

He  once  more  embraced  his  father  very  tightly : 

"  Daddy,  Daddy,  I  believe  you!  " 

"  My  boy,  my  boy,  my  boy!  Go  now,  my  own 
boy,  go  and  wash  and  get  dressed;  and  don't  let 
Mamma  notice  anything,  will  you?" 

No,  he  would  not  let  her  see ;  and  he  would  have 
a  good  wash,  in  cold  water,  wash  his  throbbing  tem- 
ples and  his  smarting  eyes. 

"  Those  damned  people !  Those  damned  peo- 
ple !  "  said  Van  der  Welcke,  cursing  and  clenching  his 
fists. 

Constance,  downstairs,  ready  dressed,  was  wait- 
ing for  them,  a  little  put  out  because  Addie  had  come 
home  so  late,  because  he  had  fought  with  Jaap,  be- 
cause he  had  refused  to  eat. 

"  Here  I  am,  Mamma." 

There  was  nothing  to  show  what  he  had  been 
through:  he  looked  fresh  and  serious  in  his  new 
blue  suit;  his  voice  was  soft  and  propitiatory.  Her 
face  lit  up  at  once : 


SMALL    SOULS  319 

"  Tell  me  now,  Addle,  why  you  fought  with 
Jaap." 

"  Oh,  a  boys'  quarrel,  Mamma,  about  nothing, 
really,  about  nothing  at  all!  Jaap  was  tormenting 
a  cat;  and  I  can't  stand  that.  Give  me  a  kiss, 
Mamma." 

He  kissed  his  mother  very  earnestly,  embraced 
her  in  his  clutching  arms.  He  would  have  forgiven 
her  everything,  if  it  had  been  really  so,  if  he  had 
been  the  son  of  an  Italian;  but  it  would  have  been 
an  everlasting  grief  to  him  if  he  had  not  been  his 
father's  son. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

VAN  DER  WELCKE  kept  himself  under  control  that 
Sunday  evening  for  Mamma  van  Lowe's  sake,  but 
he  was  really  shocked  at  Addie's  concern  and  by  the 
calumnies  that  appeared  to  be  stealthily  uttered 
against  him  in  the  Hague;  and,  next  morning,  he 
went  to  the  Ministry  of  Justice,  asked  to  see  Van 
Saetzema  and,  without  beating  about  the  bush,  re- 
quested him  to  punish  his  son  Jaap  for  his  spiteful 
slander.  Van  Saetzema,  losing  his  head  in  the  face 
of  Van  der  Welcke's  lofty  and  resolute  tone,  stam- 
mered and  spluttered,  spoke  to  Adolphine  when  he 
got  home  and  delegated  the  business  to  his  wife. 
Adolphine,  it  is  true,  scolded  Jaap  for  being  so 
stupid,  but,  in  doing  it,  created  an  excitement  that 
lasted  for  days  and  penetrated  to  the  Van  Naghels, 
the  Ruyvenaers,  Karel  and  Cateau,  Gerrit  and  Ade- 
line, Paul  and  Dorine,  until  everybody  was  talking 
about  it  and  knew  of  the  incident,  excepting  only 
Mamma  van  Lowe,  whom  they  always  spared,  and 
Constance  herself.  A  couple  of  days  later,  Van  de** 
Welcke  saw  Van  Saetzema  again  and  asked  him  if 
he  had  corrected  Jaap;  and,  when  he  perceived  in 
Van  Saetzema's  spluttering  a  certain  vagueness,  a 
certain  inclination  to  avoid  the  point,  Van  der 
Welcke,  who  was  naturally  quick-tempered,  flew  into 
a  rage  and  said  he  would  speak  to  Jaap  himself. 
And,  that  same  evening,  three  days  after  the  Sun- 

320 


SMALL    SOULS  321 

day  in  question,  Van  der  Welcke  went  to  the  Van 
Saetzemas',  was  very  polite  to  Adolphine  and  her 
husband,  but  told  Jaap,  in  his  parents'  presence, 
that,  if  he  ever  dared  repeat  his  slanderous  insinua- 
tions against  Addle,  he,  his  Uncle  van  der  Welcke, 
would  give  him  a  thrashing  which  he  would  remem- 
ber all  the  days  of  his  life.  Van  Saetzema  lost  his 
head :  unaccustomed  to  such  plain  speaking,  he  splut- 
tered and  stammered,  blurting  out  conciliatory 
words ;  and  Adolphine  told  Van  der  Welcke  that  she 
was  quite  capable  of  punishing  her  children  herself, 
if  she  thought  necessary.  Van  der  Welcke,  how- 
ever, managed  to  keep  cool  and  civil  towards  the 
father  and  mother,  but  again  warned  Jaap,  so  that 
he  might  know  what  to  expect.  A,nd  the  whole 
family  soon  learnt  that  Van  der  Welcke  had  been  to 
the  Van  Saetzemas'  and  threatened  Jaap;  and  all  the 
members  of  the  family  had  their  different  opinions, 
all  except  Mamma  van  Lowe,  who  was  not  told, 
who  was  always  spared  the  revelation  of  any  un- 
pleasantness, from  a  sort  of  reverence  on  her  chil- 
dren's part,  so  that  she  really  lived  and  reigned  over 
them  in  a  sort  of  illusion  of  harmony  and  close  com- 
munion. And  Constance  also  was  not  told,  re- 
mained gently  happy,  gently  contented,  with  that 
calm,  sweet  sadness  in  her  face  and  soul  which  was 
the  reflection  of  her  moods.  On  the  following  Sun- 
day, however,  merely  knowing  that  Addie  was  still 
angry  with  Jaap,  she  said,  at  lunch : 

"  Addie,  won't  you  go  to  the  three  boys  to-day 
and  make  it  up  with  Jaap?  " 


322  SMALL    SOULS 

But  Addle  gave  a  decided  refusal: 

14  I'll  do  anything  to  please  you,  Mamma,  but  I'll 
never  go  back  to  those  boys." 

Constance  lost  her  temper: 

"  So  on  account  of  what  you  yourself  call  a  boys' 
quarrel — about  a  cat — you  wish  to  remain  on  bad 
terms  with  the  children  of  your  mother's  sis- 
ter!" 

Addle  took  fright:  it  was  true,  fche  cause  seemed 
very  unreasonable. 

But  Van  der  Welcke,  himself  irritable  under  the 
restraint  which  he  had  been  imposing  upon  himself, 
said,  trembling  all  over: 

"  I  don't  choose,  Constance,  that  Addie  should 
continue  to  go  about  with  those  boys." 

His  determined  manner  brought  her  temper  seeth- 
ing up;  and  all  her  gentle  calmness  vanished: 

"  And  I  choose,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  Addie 
should  make  friends  with  them!  " 

"  Mamma,  I  can't,  really!  n 

"  Constance,  it's  impossible." 

Though  she  was  quivering  in  all  her  nerves,  there 
was  something  in  the  manifest  determination  of  them 
both  that  calmed  her.  But  she  grew  suspicious : 

u  Tell  me  why  you  quarrelled.  If  you  can't  make 
it  up,  then  it  wasn't  about  a  cat." 

"  Let  us  first  have  our  lunch  in  peace,  if  possible," 
said  Van  der  Welcke.  "  I'll  tell  you  everything 
presently,  at  least  if  you  can  be  calm." 

He  realized  that  he  could  no  longer  keep  her  in 
ignorance.  She  collected  all  her  strength  of  mind 


SMALL    SOULS  323 

to  remain  cool.  After  lunch,  when  she  was  alone 
with  her  husband,  she  said : 

"  Now  tell  me  what  it  is  all  about." 

"  On  one  condition,  that  you  keep  calm.  I  want 
to  avoid  a  scene  if  I  possibly  can,  if  only  for  the  sake 
of  our  boy,  who  has  been  very  unhappy." 

"  I  am  quite  calm.  Tell  me  what  it  is.  Why 
has  he  been  unhappy?" 

He  now  told  her.  She  kept  calm.  She  first  tried 
to  gloss  things  over,  in  a  spirit  of  contradiction;  but 
she  was  overcome  with  a  deep  sense  of  depression 
when  she  thought  of  her  boy  and  his  trouble.  For 
one  torturing  moment,  she  doubted  whether  she  had 
not  been  very  wrong  to  return  to  her  native  land,  to 
her  native  town,  in  the  midst  of  all  her  relations. 
But  she  merely  said: 

"  Slander  .  .  .  that  appears  to  be  people's  occu- 
pation everywhere.  .  .  ." 

Now  that  she  seemed  calm,  he  resolved  to  tell  her 
everything  and  said  that  he  had  been  to  the  Van 
Saetzemas  and  threatened  Jaap. 

Her  temper  was  roused,  for  a  moment,  but  sub- 
sided again  in  the  profound  depression  that  immedi- 
ately left  her  numb  and  disheartened.  The  tortur- 
ing pain  followed  again  and  the  doubt  whether  she 
had  not  been  quite  wrong.  .  .  . 

But  she  did  not  give  utterance  to  the  doubt  and 
simply  went  to  the  "  turret-room,"  where  her  boy 
was: 

"  Are  you  going  out,  Addle?  "  she  asked,  vaguely, 
calm  amid  her  depression. 


324  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Let's  go  out  together,  Mamma,"  he  said. 

She  smiled,  glad  that  he  was  giving  her  this  Sun- 
day afternoon  with  that  justice  with  which  he  di- 
vided his  favours.  She  stood  in  front  of  him,  with 
blank  eyes  to  which  the  tears  now  stole,  but  with  the 
smile  still  playing  about  her  mouth. 

"Shall  we,  Mamma?" 

She  nodded  yes.  Then  she  knelt  down  beside  her 
boy,  where  he  sat  with  his  book  in  his  hands,  and  it 
was  as  though  she  were  making  herself  very  small,  as 
though  she  were  shrinking;  and  she  laid  her  head 
on  his  little  knees  and  put  one  arm  round  him.  She 
wept  very  softly  into  his  lap. 

"  Come,  Mummy,  what's  the  matter?" 

She  now  knew  what  he  had  suffered,  a  sorrow 
almost  too  great  for  one  of  his  years  to  bear.  She 
almost  wished  to  beg  his  pardon,  but  dared  not.  She 
only  said: 

"  Addle,  you  did  believe  Papa,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  believe  me  too,  when  I  say  that  it's  not 
true  what  people  say?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  you." 

He  believed  her;  and  yet  a  suspicion  lingered  in 
his  mind.  There  was  something,  even  though  that 
particular  thing  was  not  true.  There  was  some- 
thing. But  he  did  not  ask  what  it  was,  out  of  re- 
spect for  those  past  years,  the  years  that  were  his 
parents'  own. 

"  My  child!  "  she  sobbed,  with  her  head  still  in 
his  lap.  "  Tell  me,  has  my  boy  been  very  unhappy?  " 


SMALL    SOULS  325 

He  just  nodded,  to  say  yes,  and  pressed  her  to 
him,  lifted  her  up,  took  her  close  to  him  on  his  knees, 
with  the  caress  of  an  embryo  man.  She  closed  her 
eyes  on  her  son's  breast.  She  felt  so  weary  with  her 
depression  that  she  could  have  remained  lying  there. 
It  was  as  though  the  illusion  was  beginning  to  crum- 
ble to  pieces,  like  a  dear  house  of  sympathy  from 
which  sympathy  had  shown  itself  to  be  absent. 

"  Don't  let  Grandmamma  notice  anything,"  she 
said,  softly. 

He  promised. 

She  wanted  to  leave  the  okh woman  her  happiness 
in  her  illusion,  the  illusion  of  that  dear  house  of  sym- 
pathy. Her  own  illusion  was  crumbling.  And  yet 
she  thought  that  she  was  exaggerating,  making  too 
much  of  it,  because  a  wretched  boy  had  given  her 
child  pain: 

"  That's  no  reason  why  they  should  all  be  like 
that,"  she  thought. 

And  she  once  more  summoned  to  her  mind  the  il- 
lusion of  that  great,  dear  house  of  sympathy  for 
which  she  had  yearned  in  her  lonely  exile. 

"  Come,  Mamma,  let's  go  out." 

She  released  him  slowly,  smiled  through  her  tears, 
as  she  rose  from  his  lap  and  went  to  change  her 
things : 

"  How  small  we  all  are !  "  she  thought.  "  What 
small  creatures  we  are  and  what  small  souls  we  have ! 
Is  that  life?  Or  is  there  something  different?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  boy  had  grown  serious.  For  that  little  incident 
represented  more  to  him  than  a  quarrel  with  a  cousin 
about  a  word  of  abuse:  it  had  suddenly  opened  a 
window  to  him,  who  was  already  none  too  young 
for  his  years,  given  him  a  view  into  the  people 
around  him,  the  big,  older,  grown-up,  serious  peo- 
ple, the  people  to  whom  he  would  belong  later,  when 
he  too  was  big  and  old  and  grown-up;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  it  had  given  him  his  first  great  sorrow. 
The  boy  had  grown  more  serious,  more  serious  than 
he  already  was,  now  that  he  had  discussed  it  calmly 
with  Frans  van  Naghel  and  told  him  that  he  had 
asked  his  father  about  it  and  that  the  nickname  was 
a  pure  slander.  And  the  delicate  bloom  on  his  child- 
soul,  which  was  like  the  soul  of  a  little  man,  was  not 
only  offended  by  that  slander  and  soiled  by  it  and 
profaned,  but  that  fledgling  man's  soul,  with  its 
downy  freshness,  was  startled  and  astonished  and 
shocked  and  did  not  understand  why  the  people 
around  him  uttered  slanders,  the  people  for  whom 
Mamma  had  longed  because  she  missed  them  so  in 
her  loneliness  and  because  she  was  filled  with  that 
strange  feeling,  that  passion  for  her  family.  Why, 
why  did  people  slander?  Why  did  they  speak  evil? 
For  he  now  felt  that  they  all  knew  that  nickname 
and  perhaps  all  believed  that  slander  a  little,  inas- 
much as  they  all  slandered.  What  did  it  benefit 

326 


SMALL   SOULS  327 

them,  what  did  they  gain  by  it,  what  good  did  it  do 
them  to  slander  for  slander's  sake?  And  the  sus- 
picion lingered;  for,  if  it  was  not  true,  what  they 
said  about  his  father  and  mother,  what  was  it  that 
was  true?  He  felt  that  there  was  something  in  their 
past,  something  that  had  never  entirely  disappeared, 
something  that  still  embittered  the  existence  of  both 
of  them,  something  that  was  perhaps  the  cause  of 
their  irreconcilable  discord. 

And  the  boy  felt  this  so  deeply,  in  the  seriousness 
that  had  come  with  his  new-found  knowledge,  that 
once,  when  he  was  alone  with  his  father,  he  climbed 
on  his  knees  and  simply  asked  him  to  tell  him  what 
it  was.  He  was  a  child,  for  he  still  sat  on  his 
father's  knee,  and  yet  he  was  already  a  sturdy  boy, 
though  short  for  his  years ;  and,  however  serious  he 
might  be,  he  still  had  the  soft  bloom  of  his  child- 
hood on  hjs  cheeks  and  on  his  soul.  True,  his  father 
was  beginning  to  ask: 

"  Aren't  you  too  big,  my  boy,  to  sit  on  your 
father's  knee?" 

But  he  himself  did  not  think  that  he  was  too  big 
yet.  Seriousness  and  extreme  childishness,  man- 
hood and  boyhood  were  mingled  in  him;  and,  though 
he  was  a  little  man,  he  was  also  still  a  boy;  though 
he  was  serious,  he  still  remained  a  child. 

He  sat  on  his  father's  knees  and  asked  him, 
gravely,  to  tell  him  what  was  true,  if  the  slanders 
which  people  spoke  were  not  true;  for  he  felt  that 
there  was  something.  And  he  read  in  his  father's 
eyes  that  he  must  not  ask;  and  his  father  answered 


328  SMALL   SOULS 

that  he  was  still  too  young  for  his  father  to  discuss 
everything  with  him.  Then  he  fell  silent,  did  not 
insist;  but  the  suspicion  never  left  him  and  he  now 
knew  for  certain  that  there  was  something,  because 
his  father  had  told  him  that  he  was  too  young  to  dis- 
cuss things  with  him.  And  so  the  boy  became  seri- 
ous; and,  when  Van  der  Welcke  came  home  to  din- 
ner from  the  club,  he  no  longer  found  his  cheerful 
Addie,  who  could  talk  so  brightly  and  fill  up  the  gap 
between  him  and  Constance  with  his  pleasant,  boy- 
ish talk.  The  boy  sat  in  silence,  ate  in  silence,  with 
his  young  soul  full  of  suspicion,  full  of  silent  ques- 
tionings as  to  what  it  really  was,  if  the  slanders 
which  people  uttered  were  not  true.  He  loved  them 
so  fondly,  with  that  love  of  his;  and  it  made  him 
profoundly  sad  that  he  did  not  know  that  thing  of 
the  past,  because,  for  want  of  that  knowledge,  he 
was  no  longer  living  their  life.  He  now  wished 
that  he  was  older,  so  as  to  be  able  to  live  their  life 
and  have  the  right  to  know.  And  he  weighed 
what  he  did  know  in  his  soul  that  longed  for  cer- 
tainties: he  knew  that  Mamma  had  been  married  be- 
fore and  was  divorced  from  the  husband  whom  she 
never  mentioned.  Had  it  been  that  first  husband's 
fault?  Or  had  she  made  him  unhappy?  Addie 
did  not  know  and  was  craving  to  know.  And  his 
longing  was  no  morbid  curiosity,  but  the  result  of  his 
unnatural  upbringing:  his  longing  had  come  about 
quite  naturally,  after  his  first  great  sorrow,  because 
his  father  and  mother  had  both  always  looked  upon 
him  as  almost  more  than  their  child,  as  their  com- 


SMALL    SOULS  329 

rade,  as  their  consolation,  as  their  passion,  to  whom 
all  the  current  of  both  their  hearts  went  out.  That 
Constance  should  have  sobbed  in  his  lap,  that  Van 
der  Welcke  should  worship  him  as  his  warmest 
friend — him,  their  boy,  their  little  son — had  made 
his  serious  soul  still  more  serious  and  as  deep  as  a 
small,  clear  lake;  and  it  could  not  be  but  that,  after 
the  first  shock  and  the  first  sorrow,  questions  and 
longings  should  arise  in  him  that  as  yet  made  no  ap- 
peal to  other  children.  His  nature  was  healthy,  the 
nature  of  a  healthy  child's  soul,  well  and  peacefully 
balanced  in  its  early,  sturdy  manliness;  but  his  ex- 
istence between  his  two  parents — it  could  not  be 
called  an  upbringing — had  worked  on  his  nerves  to 
the  extent  of  now  making  him  quiver  with  the  wish 
to  know. 

Those  were  gloomy  meals;  and  Constance  asked 
Van  der  Welcke  why  Addie  was  so  gloomy,  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  he  had  been.  Now  that  the  boy 
was  gloomy,  with  that  new,  strange  and  serious 
gloominess,  they  both  sought  each  other  more  than 
they  had  done,  talked  to  each  other,  calmly,  without 
angry  scenes.  Now  that  the  child  was  still  suffering, 
they  both,  together,  sought  for  a  solution,  how  to 
stop  his  suffering.  And,  helpless  i.n  the  midst  of 
this  entirely  new  confidence,  they  looked  at  each 
other  as  though  in  despair,  because  they  thought  the 
solution  too  terrible.  The  child  wanted  to  know; 
and  they,  both  of  them,  would  be  compelled — to 
stop  his  suffering,  or,  perhaps,  increase  it  and  feel 
his  growing  contempt  and  blame  pressing  upon  them 


330  SMALL    SOULS 

— both  of  them  would  be  compelled  to  speak  of  the 
years  past,  of  the  gigantic  mistake  of  their  lives, 
the  mistake  which  had  given  him,  their  child,  his  life ! 
Oh,  how  they  felt  it,  both  of  them,  that  past  which 
never  died,  sunk  in  a  bottomless  pit,  but  always 
haunted  them,  haunting  them  more  seriously,  more 
menacingly  now  that  Addie  was 'growing  older  and 
had  been  unhappy  and  wanted  to  know  I  Oh,  how 
helpless  they  both  felt,  while  they  stared  at  each 
other  in  despair  because  they  did  not  know  how  to 
spare  their  darling,  how  to  spare  him,  even  though 
they  would  spare  him  to-day,  how — how  indeed? — 
to  spare  him  to-morrow!  And,  because  their  sor- 
row was  the  same,  the  same  sorrow  for  their  darling, 
for  their  comrade,  their  consolation,  their  passion, 
it  was  as  though,  for  the  first  time,  after  years  and 
years,  they  were  nearing  each  other  and  for  the  first 
time  bearing  together  a  part  of  the  heavy  burden  of 
life  that  pressed  upon  their  small  souls.  How  were 
they  to  spare  him,  how  were  they  to  spare  him? 

Finding  no  solution,  they  each  went  their  own  way 
again,  their  eyes  still  blank  with  helplessness,  their 
hearts  heavy  with  despair.  What  had  become  of 
the  melancholy  contentment  that  had  brought  Con- 
stance her  gentle  happiness?  And,  when  they  met 
again  at  meals  and  the  boy,  the  sensible,  merry  little 
comrade  of  old,  who  had  always  enlivened  those 
meal-times,  sat  in  silence,  ate  in  silence,  with  his 
serious  boy's  face,  firm  in  outline  already  and  yet 
with  the  soft  bloom  of  the  child  upon  it,  and  his 
steel-blue  eyes  full  of  thought,  then  they  would  tim- 


SMALL    SOULS  331 

idly  stare  at  each  other  again  and  the  same  discour- 
agement would  send  its  cry  of  despair  from  out  of 
their  timid  glance.  This  was  no  longer  to  be  en- 
dured, this  made  them  both  suffer  overmuch,  this 
would  have  cost  them  their  lives  and  the  grace  of 
their  lives,  this  they  could  no  longer  face,  this  made 
them  feel  more  helpless  from  day  to  day. 

Though  they  both  of  them,  separately,  took  him 
in  their  arms,  he  no  longer  said  a  word,  accepted  the 
fact  that  he  was  too  young  to  know  what  was  really 
true,  if  the  slander  was  not  true;  but  neither  his  face 
nor  his  soul  brightened  and  the  deepening  of  his 
gloom  was  the  measure  of  their  despair. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  thought  Constance. 
"  What  are  we  to  do?  "  she  asked  Van  der  Welcke. 

And  she  wrung  her  hands,  feeling  that  the  past  was 
now  doomed  to  remain  for  ever  and  that  to  think 
anything  else  was  to  invite  disillusion.  Oh,  the  past, 
which  not  only  remained,  which  not  only  would  cling 
to  them  for  ever,  but  which  grew,  grew  with  the  child, 
as  though  the  sorrow  of  that  past  would  always 
blossom  anew,  again  and  again,  with  perennial  grief 
and  woe !  Oh,  the  indestructible  sorrow,  which  al- 
ways came  back  to  haunt  them,  even  though  it  seemed 
to  have  died,  sunk  in  a  bottomless  pit,  the  abyss  of 
past  years!  Until,  at  last,  as  in  a  cry  for  help  in 
the  helplessness  that  pressed  and  bore  upon  her  more 
fiercely  from  day  to  day,  clutching  at  her  throat,  in- 
exorably demanding  a  decision,  she  made  that  deci- 
sion and  wailed: 

"  Tell  him !     Tell  him !     Tell  him !  " 


332  SMALL    SOULS 

And,  as  she  uttered  that  wail,  he  saw  her  so  pros- 
trate under  the  decision  that  would  bring  down  upon 
her  the  scorn,  the  rage  perhaps,  of  their  child,  of 
their  son,  the  death — O  Heaven!— of  his  love,  if 
he  once  knew  and,  above  all,  realized  the  truth, 
that  he,  her  husband,  felt  pity  for  the  woman  who 
had  turned  his  life  into  a  long  and  dreary  futility; 
and  he  said: 

"I  will  tell  him,  I  will  tell  him.  But  have  no  fear: 
if  he  does  understand  and  realize  it,  he  will  love  you 
none  the  less  for  it,  Constance !  " 

She  looked  at  him,  feeling  that  he  no  longer 
grudged  her  their  child's  love,  that  he  was  not  as 
jealous  as  she.  And,  for  a  moment,  she  thought  of 
throwing  herself  on  his  breast  and  sobbing  out  the 
anguish  which  she  felt  pressing  more  and  more  upon 
her,  felt  coming  towards  her  like  a  monster  looming 
out  of  the  future.  But  the  emotion  tugging  at  her 
heart-strings  was  drawn  back  violently;  and  she  went 
away  and  flung  herself  on  the  floor  in  her  bedroom 
and  hiccoughed  her  despair  .  .  .  because  her  son 
was  going  to  be  told  1 


r 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

BUT  he  did  not  tell  him  that  day.  He  merely  per- 
suaded himself  that  it  was  not  necessary,  that  it 
would  even  be  wrong  to  tell  his  son,  his  child,  who 
was  still  so  young,  the  past  of  their  lives,  that  which 
he  would  hear  of  himself  and  know  and  understand 
when  he  was  a  year  or  two  older.  And  on  the  fol- 
lowing days  also,  hesitating,  Van  der  Welcke  did  not 
tell  him.  But  the  gloomy  meals  continued,  Con- 
stance' fits  of  helplessness  continued;  and  she  once 
again  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  tell  him!     Do  tell  him  I" 

And  they  both  felt  so  unhappy,  because  they  were 
losing  their  child  more  and  more  every  day,  that  he 
determined  to  tell  Addie.  He  hesitated  until  the 
last  moment,  wavering,  struggling  within  himself, 
not  knowing  what  would  be  right,  what  wrong, 
knowing  only  that  he  was  suffering  beyond  endur- 
ance. Then,  one  evening,  he  looked  up  his  child  in 
the  "  turret-room :  " 

"  Addie,  shall  I  be  in  your  way  if  I  sit  here?  " 

"  No,  Papa." 

The  boy  was  doing  his  home-work.  Van  der 
Welcke  sat  down.  He  reflected  that  he  would  rather 
tell  him  some  other  day,  when  Addie  was  not  work- 
ing. The  child  worked  on,  silently,  gloomily, 
grimly.  And  Van  der  Welcke  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"  Addie  1" 

333 


334  SMALL    SOULS 

"Yes,  Papa?" 

"  Come  here  for  a  minute." 

The  boy  stood  up  and  went  to  him. 

"  Tell  me,  why  have  you  been  so  gloomy  lately, 
my  boy?  " 

**  I'm  not  gloomy,  Daddy." 

"  You  hardly  speak  to  me  or  your  mother.  And 
it's  not  like  you,  to  sulk.  Are  you  angry  with  us?  " 

"  No,  Daddy." 

"  Aren't  you  angry  with  us?  " 

"  No,  Daddy:  what  should  I  be  angry  for?  " 

"  Then  be  as  you  used  to  be,  Addie.  When 
you're  not  cheerful,  everything  in  the  house  is  so 
sad." 

The  boy  smiled. 

"  I'll  try,  Daddy." 

"  But  why  try?     Just  be  it,  be  it !" 

No,  Van  der  Welcke  would  not,  could  not  tell 
him. 

11  I'll  try,  Daddy." 

And  he  moved  to  go  back  to  his  books. 

"Addie!" 

"What  is  it,  Papa?" 

"  Come  here,  come  to  me." 

"  I  have  my  work  to  do." 

"  Come  along,  I  want  you." 

The  boy  came. 

"  Come  to  me,  here,  on  my  lap.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
last  time,  Addie,  that  I  shall  take  you  on  my  knee. 
You  are  my  little  boy  still;  and  presently,  presently 
perhaps  you  will  be  a  big  son  to  me,  with  whom  I 


SMALL    SOULS  335 

shall  discuss  things  .  .  .  and  who  will  no  longer  sit 
on  my  lap." 

He  sat  down  on  his  father's  knee: 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked,  quietly,  sensibly. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  Addle." 

The  child  understood: 

"  No,  don't  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not  inquisi- 
tive. And  I  am  too  young,  perhaps,  to  know.  It 
doesn't  matter.  I  dare  say  I  shall  know,  later  on. 
For  the  present,  I'm  just  your  little  boy." 

He  nestled  against  his  father,  in  his  arm : 

"  It's  so  jolly,  sitting  with  you  like  this.  Uncle 
Paul  always  says,  when  he  sees  us  bicycling,  that  we 
are  just  like  chums,  but  he  has  never  seen  us  like 
this." 

Should  he  tell  him?  thought  Van  der  Welcke. 
Should  he  not  tell  him?  If  he  told  him,  this  would 
be  the  last  time  that  he  would  take  his  son  on  his 
knees. 

"  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  you,  Addie." 

"  No,  don't." 

He  did  not  tell  him  that  evening.  And  the  boy 
tried  to  be  as  he  used  to,  especially  at  meals,  but  he 
was  not  very  successful;  his  cheerfulness  sounded 
forced.  Then,  two  evenings  later,  Van  der  Welcke 
said: 

"  Come  here,  Addie.     Come  and  sit  on  my  lap." 

And  that  was  the  last  time. 

"  Listen,  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  When 
you  know,  perhaps  you  will  feel  a  little  older  than 
you  do  now;  but,  when  you  know,  you  will  be  my; 


336  SMALL    SOULS 

child  again,  my  son,  won't  you?  My  son,  yes,  who 
is  becoming  a  man,  but  still  my  son,  my  friend  as 
always.  I'll  tell  you  now.  It's  better  that  I  should 
tell  you.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  told  him,  very  simply.  .  .  . 

And  it  was  very  easy,  very  simple  to  tell  Addie,  in 
quiet  words.  He  told  his  boy  that  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  Mamma  when  she  was  the  wife  of  another 
and  that  he  had  stolen  Mamma's  love,  stolen  it  from 
that  other  man.  He  told  the  story  so  humbly,  so 
quietly  and  simply  as  though  it  meant  nothing,  mak- 
ing this  confession  to  his  child,  and  as  though  he  were 
pouring  out  all  his  sufferings  of  the  old  days  into  the 
heart  of  a  friend.  They  sat  talking  for  a  long  time; 
and  it  did  them  both  good.  Then  said  Van  der 
Welcke : 

"  Addie,  go  to  Mamma  now.  She  herself  asked 
me  to  tell  you  everything.  Go  to  her  now  and  give 
her  a  kiss." 

The  boy  kissed  him  first,  embraced  him  with 
throttling  arms,  with  the  grip  of  a  friend's  embrace. 
Then  he  went  out;  and  Van  der  Welcke,  quietly 
smoking,  listened  to  his  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  But 
then  Van  der  Welcke  started,  with  a  shock,  re- 
flected: 

'What  have  I  done?     O  my  God,  no,  no,  no  I 
I  ought  not  to  have  told  him.  .  .  ." 

But  the  house  remained  very  quiet  Constance 
was  sitting  alone,  in  her  boudoir.  Her  head  Was 
bent  under  the  light  of  the  lamp,  over  her  needle- 
work, and  her  hair,  changing  so  gently  to  its  cloudy 


SMALL   SOULS  337 

grey,  curled  tenderly  about  the  delicate  oval  of  her 
still  youthful  face.  There  was  a  sort  of  gentle,  re- 
signed peace  in  her  attitude,  with  much  pensiveness 
and  sadness.  When  Addle  opened  the  door,  he 
stood  still  and  she  did  not  look  up,  thinking  that  it 
was  Van  der  Welcke.  Then  he  went  to  his 
mother.  .  .  . 

She  looked  up,  startled : 

"Is  that  you?" 

"  Yes,  Mamma." 

She  looked  up  at  him;  and  suddenly  it  flashed 
across  her  that  he  knew.  .  .  . 

"  Papa  has  been  speaking  to  me,  Mamma.  .  .  ." 

She  gave  a  violent  start,  as  though  she  had  had 
an  electric  shock;  her  eyes  closed,  her  head  fell  back, 
her  hands  fell  slackly  in  her  lap : 

"  O  God!  "  she  thought.  "  No,  oh,  no,  he  ought 
not  to  have  told  him !  .  .  ." 

He  knelt  before  his  mother  and  passed  his  fingers 
softly  over  her  face  and  gently  opened  her  eyes. 
She  looked  at  him,  with  a  pale,  terrified,  shocked 
face  and  staring  eyes  and  distorted  mouth.  She  saw 
his  own  fresh,  soft  child's  face,  smiling  friend- 
ily 

"  I  know  the  truth  now,  Mamma,"  he  said,  "  and, 
if  people  slander  me  now,  I  can  bear  it.  .  .  ." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  him,  dropped  her  head 
upon  his  breast.  She  felt  him  in  that  embrace  grown 
older,  bigger,  stronger,  now  quite  a  man.  She  now 
felt  a  protector  in  him.  But  she  was  ashamed  and 
again  closed  her  eyes: 


338  SMALL    SOULS 

"  My  boy!  "  she  murmured.  "  Do  you  love  your 
mother?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  Mamma." 

Her  face  grew  calmer,  but  her  eyes  remained  shut. 

"  My  darling!  "  she  whispered,  almost  inaudibly, 
with  closed  eyes.  "  Thank  you.  Thank  you.  But 
leave  me  to  myself  now.  .  .  ." 

He  kissed  her,  with  his  manly  tenderness,  and 
then  went  out  and  shut  the  door.  She  opened  her 
eyes,  looked  round  the  room.  But  it  was  as  though 
she  was  ashamed  before  everything,  before  the  walls 
of  the  room  and  the  furniture  around  her;  for  she 
now  closed  her  eyes  again  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

And  she  sat  like  that  for  long,  as  though  lost  in 
thanksgiving  for  the  mercy  vouchsafed  her  by 
life.  .  .  . 

But,  between  the  two  of  them,  the  boy  now 
brightened,  strong  in  the  power  of  truth  and  cer- 
tainty, even  though  window  after  window  had  opened 
before  him,  giving  him  a  glimpse  into  the  world. 
Between  the  two  of  them,  he  recovered  his  former 
self,  his  former  voice,  his  childish  tempers  even, 
became  once  more  the  consolation  and  the  aim  of 
their  two  existences.  She  went  for  walks  on  his  arm ; 
he  went  bicycling  with  him  for  long  distances,  full 
of  air  and  space.  The  house  resounded  with  his 
young,  serious,  no  longer  treble  voice.  When  she 
looked  at  him,  however,  she  thought  that  he  had 
grown,  had  become  broader;  that  the  shape  of  his 


SMALL   SOULS  339 

head,  the  curve  of  his  cheeks  were  losing  the  child- 
ish softness  that  still  belonged  to  his  years.  .  .  . 

And,  when  Van  der  Welcke  felt  bored  in  his  smok- 
ing-room and  went  and  sat  with  Addle  in  the  "  tur- 
ret," always  first  punctiliously  asking  his  son  if  he 
was  interrupting  him  in  his  work,  he  no  longer  took 
him  on  his  knee. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  was  one  morning  during  the  summer  holidays  that 
old  Mr.  van  der  Welcke  said  to  his  wife: 

"  Why  not  ask  the  little  boy  to  come  and  stay  with 
us?" 

There  was  never  much  said  between  the  old  peo- 
ple, but  each  understood  without  words,  or  from  a 
single  word,  the  thought  that  was  passing  in  the 
other's  mind. 

Not  until  the  evening  did  the  old  lady  ask: 

"The  little  boy  alone?" 

"  Yes,  alone  ...  or  with  Henri." 

Two  days  after  that,  she  suggested: 

"  Oughtn't  we  to  invite  them  all  three,  in  that 
case?  Constance  as  well?" 

The  old  man  said  nothing  and  went  on  reading, 
as  though  he  had  not  heard;  and  his  wife  did  not 
press  for  an  answer.  But,  at  nightfall,  when  they 
sat  staring  at  the  dark  summer  evening  outside,  old 
Mr.  van  der  Welcke  said : 

"  No,  I  don't  like  her.  Let  us  ask  Henri  and 
Adriaan." 

She  said  nothing.  She  was  used  to  obeying  her 
husband's  wishes;  and  she  had  brought  up  Henri 
also,  long  ago,  to  obey  his  parents'  wishes.  And 
Henri  had  obediently  given  up  his  life,  given  up  him- 
self, at  their  command,  to  that  woman.  Which  of 
the  two  was  more  to  blame,  whether  he  had  been  the 

340 


SMALL   SOULS  341 

tempter  or  she  the  temptress,  they  did  not  know, 
they  did  not  wish  to  know,  because  all  temptation 
sprang  from  the  evil  one;  but  Henri  was  a  man; 
and  so  the  responsibility  fell  upon  him.  He  being 
responsible,  they  had  commanded  him  to  sacrifice 
himself  and  thus  to  atone  for  his  sin,  in  the  face  of 
God  and  man.  That  was  how  they  had  seen  it  at 
the  time,  how  they  had  commanded,  how  it  had  come 
to  pass.  But  he,  the  father,  had  lost  his  son  through 
that  command;  and  the  loss  always  rankled.  .  .  . 

"  Henri   and  Adriaan  alone,"   the  old  man  re- 
peated. 

Now  that  he  was  repeating  his  few  words,  she 
knew  that  his  will  was  irrevocable.  She  was  sorry 
for  it:  the  voices  which  spoke  to  her  now  and  then, 
on  nights  when  the  wind  blew,  had  gradually  brought 
her  to  a  gentler  mood,  as  though  they  had  been  sooth- 
ing music  to  her  listening  soul.  Those  voices  had  v 
told  her  to  go  to  the  Hague;  and  there  she  had  for 
the  second  time  seen  that  woman,  the  bane  of  their 
life  as  parents,  and  met  that  woman's  mother;  and 
it  was  as  though  that  meeting  between  mother  and 
mother  had  been  a  gentle  balm,  as  gentle  and  heal- 
ing as  the  magic  music  of  the  voices,  a  balm  that 
brought  about  a  softer  mood,  that  caused  more  to 
be  understood,  that  caused  much  to  be  forgiven,  in 
a  gradual  approach  towards  reconciliation,  after  so 
.many,  many  dismal  years  of  silent  rancour  and  antag- 
onism. In  her,  the  old  woman,  the  rancour  had  as  it 
were  melted  away,  since  she  had  read  the  strange 
book,  since  she  had  heard  the  voices  on  gusty  nights, 


342  SMALL    SOULS 

since  she  had  seen  that  woman's  mother  and  known 
her  sadness.  In  the  old  woman  it  was  a  gentle  wish 
not  only  for  reconciliation,  but  for  some  measure  of 
friendship  with  that  woman,  the  wife  of  her  son, 
the  mother  of  her  grandchild.  But  she  felt  that 
there  was  no  trace  of  any  such  wish  in  her  husband's 
heart;  and,  because  she  could  only  obey,  she  said 
nothing  and  merely  told  him  wordlessly  that  she  did 
not  think  as  he  thought. 

He  heard  her  saying  it  without  words,  but  he  did 
not  give  in. 

And,  when  they  went  to  bed,  he  said: 

"  I  shall  write  to  Henri  to-morrow." 

He  wrote  to  ask  if  Henri  and  Adriaan  would 
come  and  spend  a  week  at  Driebergen,  before  Ad- 
riaan's  holidays  were  over.  Van  der  Welcke  felt 
in  the  laboured  words  of  that  old  man  who  was  not 
used  to  writing  that  his  father  was  implacable 
towards  Constance.  Constance  felt  it  and  so  did 
Addie.  And,  when  Addie,  offended  on  his  moth- 
er's behalf,  said,  angrily,  that  she  was  being  left 
behind  alone,  she  replied: 

"  It's  better  that  you  should  go  with  Papa,  my 
boy." 

She  thought  it  advisable  for  him,  the  grandson, 
the  heir,  not  to  provoke  his  grandfather.  But  she 
had  never  spent  a  week  without  him  before: 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  she  thought.  "  He  is  grow- 
ing bigger,  older;  I  shall  see  less  of  him  still  as  time 
goes  on." 

Yes,  he  had  grown  bigger,  older;  he  was  now 


SMALL    SOULS  343 

fourteen.  He  was  broad;  and  his  voice  was  so 
curiously  deep  sometimes,  was  changing;  but  he  re- 
mained small  for  his  age.  The  pink  childishness  of 
his  skin  was  becoming  downy  with  a  sort  of  blond 
velvet  bloom;  and  that  blond  velvet  was  more  clearly 
defined  above  his  upper  lip.  But  he  was  still  a  child 
in  the  innocent  freshness  which,  despite  his  serious- 
ness, wafted  from  all  his  being  like  a  perfume. 

"  I'm  going  to  Driebergen  for  a  week  with  Papa," 
he  said  to  Paul,  to  Gerrit,  to  Adeline.  "  Will  you 
take  pity  on  Mamma,  Uncle,  while  I'm  away?  Will 
you,  Auntie?  " 

They  promised,  smiling.  Constance  remained 
calm  and  peaceful.  After  those  gently  happy  moods 
there  had  come  to  her,  since  Addie's  quarrel  with 
Jaap  about  the  nickname  and  what  had  happened 
after  the  quarrel,  a  nameless  depression  that  silently 
gnawed  at  her  heart.  She  did  not  speak  about  it, 
did  not  mention  it  to  Addie,  nor  to  Gerrit,  nor  to 
Paul.  She  entombed  it  in  the  depth  of  herself. 

Father  and  son  went  away;  and  the  grandparents 
thought  that  the  little  boy  had  grown.  The  grand- 
mother feared  that  the  children  of  the  villa  close  by 
would  be  too  childish,  after  all,  for  Adiaan  to  play 
with.  She  said  this  with  an  air  of  disappointment, 
but  also  of  astonishment  and  admiration;  and,  al- 
though Henri  said  that  Addie  could  play  very  nicely 
with  his  Uncle  Gerrit's  fair-haired  little  tribe,  even 
if  he  was  a  little  paternal  with  them,  yet  the  old 
woman  sent  no  message  to  the  villa. 

It  was  beautiful  at  Driebergen  and  Zeist;  and  Van 


344  SMALL    SOULS 

der  Welcke  enjoyed  being  there.  And,  as  they  had 
brought  their  bicycles,  they  went  on  long  expedi- 
tions. .  .  . 

When  alone  with  his  father,  Van  der  Welcke 
spoke  out  more  and  more.  He  spoke  of  the  past, 
humbly,  as  though  once  more  asking  forgiveness  of 
that  stern  father  who  to  him,  the  son,  seemed  almost 
supernatural  in  his  absolute  virtue  and  stainlessness. 
He  spoke  of  Rome,  he  even  spoke  of  De  Staffelaer, 
who  was  still  alive,  at  his  country-place  near  Haar- 
lem, a  man  as  old  as  Van  der  Welcke's  father;  he 
spoke  of  those  last  dismal  years  at  Brussels,  of  how 
they  had  both  longed  for  Dutch  air  and  Dutch  peo- 
ple, especially  for  their  own  families.  But  he  also 
said  that,  however  glad  he  might  be  to  see  his  par- 
ents again,  he  thought  that  to  Constance  this  renewal 
of  family-ties  was  often  a  disappointment.  As  he 
talked,  he  felt  himself  the  boy,  the  student,  the 
young  man  of  former  days,  who  also  had  talked 
much  with  his  father,  with  his  father  alone,  even  as 
Addie  now  talked  with  him.  He  spoke  of  his  boy 
and  admitted  that  he  worshipped  him,  that  they  both 
worshipped  him.  The  old  man,  quietly  smoking  his 
pipe,  listened,  taking  a  new  interest  in  those  younger 
lives,  the  lives  of  his  son  and  grandson.  The  old 
t  man  felt  as  though  he  were  rediscovering  something 
of  his  son,  but  he  also  felt  him  to  be  very  far  away 
from  him,  without  love  or  fear  of  God. 

Van  der  Welcke  spoke  on.  .  .  .  And,  almost 
unconsciously,  in  this  confession  and  avowal  of  his 
life  and  thoughts  and  feelings,  he  told  how  Addie 


SMALL   SOULS  345 

had  quarrelled  and  fought  with  his  cousin,  told  of 
the  talk  in  their  circle  and  of  the  distress  of  his  son. 
He  told  on,  almost  unconsciously,  of  the  wavering, 
the  struggle,  the  helplessness  of  Constance  and  him- 
self when  they  saw  their  child  pining  with  that  dis- 
tress. And,  almost  unconsciously,  Van  der  Welcke 
confessed,  quite  simply,  that  he  had  spoken  to'  his 
son  as  to  a  man  and  told  his  son  the  truth  about  his 
parents'  past. 

The  old  man,  quietly  smoking,  had  heard  him  in 
silence,  glad  to  listen  to  his  son's  voice.  What  his 
son  had  told  him  to  start  with  was  strange  to  him: 
thoughts,  feelings,  experiences  of  a  very  strange  life, 
differing  wholly  from  his  own.  But  what  his  son 
told  him  now  made  him  doubt  whether  he  had  heard 
aright : 

;<  What  do  you  say?  "  he  asked,  thinking  that  he 
must  be  hard  of  hearing. 

Van  der  Welcke  repeated  what  he  had  said. 
'  You   told  .  .  .  Adriaan  .  .   .  your  past?  .   .  . 
Told  him  about  Rome  and  De  Staff elaer?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  without  entering  into  unnecessary  details 
and  with  due  respect  for  his  youth,  I  told  him  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth.  The  boy  was  suffering  pain, 
was  distressed  because  he  did  not  know;  and  now 
he  is  suffering  no  longer." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  put  down  his 
pipe: 

"  I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "  Or  else  there's 
something  wrong  with  my  hearing.  You  told  .  .  . 
Adriaan  .  .?" 


346  SMALL    SOULS 

Van  der  Welcke  repeated  it  again,  smiling  a  little 
at  his  father's  astonishment. 

The  old  man  understood  that  he  had  heard  quite 
clearly.  But  he  was  so  much  shocked  that  he  could 
not  speak. 

And  it  was  only  next  day  that  he  asked : 

"  How  were  you  able  to  tell  Adriaan  that?  " 

"  Just  plainly  and  simply,"  said  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  Just  plainly  and  simply?  "  the  old  man  echoed. 

And  not  until  that  evening  did  he  find  more  words ; 
then  he  said: 

"  No,  I  can't  understand  it.  I  can't  understand 
you,  Henri.  I  feel  that  there  is  a  very,  very  deep 
\gulf  between  us.  I  feel  that  there  is  neither  love 
/nor  fear  of  God  in  you,  that  everything  in  your  life, 
/  in  your  relations  with  your  wife,  with  your  child, 
1  lacks  a  religious  tendency.  It  makes  me  very  sad. 
I  could  never  have  pictured  things  like  that.  I  at 
least  thought  that  you  would  have  asked  God's  for- 
giveness daily  for  the  sin  you  once  committed,  the 
sin  against  yourself,  your  parents,  that  woman,  her 
husband,  against  the  world,  against  God.  I  never 
r  imagined  you,  Henri,  so  obdurate,  so  entirely  with- 
out repentance,  regretting  merely  your  own  ruined 
life  and  shattered  career.  I  can  only  pray  for  you 
and  I  will  pray  for  you,  every  day.  Sfill,  I  can 
understand  want  of  faith.  But  what  I  can't  under- 
stand is  that  you  should — plainly  and  simply — cor- 
rupt the  soul  of  your  son,  a  child  of  fourteen,  by  tell- 
ing him  of  your  sin — plainly  and  simply — so  that  he 
might  no  longer  suffer :  those  were  your  words,  were 


SMALL    SOULS  347 

they  not?  Now,  when  I  repeat  those  words  to  my- 
self and  repeat  them  again  and  think  over  them  and 
reflect  upon  them,  I  fail  to  understand  them.  I  do 
not  understand  them.  I  feel  that  you  must  be  en- 
tirely lacking  in  moral  sense,  in  any  idea  of  duty 
towards  your  child,  in  any  fear  of  God,  to  be  able  to 
act  like  that,  to  be  able  to  speak  like  that  to  your 
son,  just  to  spare  him  suffering — plainly  and  simply 
— and  I  ask  myself,  *  Am  I  dreaming?  Where  am 
I?  Whom  am  I  speaking  to?  Is  the  man  opposite 
me  my  son,  my  child,  brought  up  by  myself,  and  is 
what  he  is  telling  me  the  truth  or  an  illusion?  '  And, 
if  that  illusion  is  the  truth,  Henri,  if  you  are  so  en- 
tirely lost  to  every  sense  of  moral  and  parental  duty, 
then  I  am  very,  very  sorry  to  hear  it  and  I  sit  staring 
into  a  horrible  abyss;  and  I  confess  that  I  do  not 
understand  you  and  that  I  understand  nothing  of 
the  world,  the  times  and  the  people  of  to-day.  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  had  spoken  slowly,  measuring  every 
word. 

"  Father,"  said  Henri,  "you  and  I  are  different; 
and  I  can  understand  that  you,  an  old  man,  in  your 
great  goodness  and  transcendental  sense  of  duty, 
cannot  understand  how  I  feel  and  think  and  act. 
Still,  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have  corrupted  Addie 
and  I  am  convinced  that  it  was  a  good  impulse  that 
suggested  to  Constance  and  me  to  tell  our  child 
about  our  past  at  once  and  not  to  wait  until  he  was 
a  year  or  two  older.  Tell  me  if  you  think  that  he 
looks  like  a  child  whose  imagination  has  been  de- 
filed. Tell  me  if  ypu  do  not  think,  on  the  contrary, 


348  SMALL   SOULS 

that  he  is  a  strong-minded  boy  who  suffered  from 
those  slanders,  when  they  reached  him,  simply  be- 
cause he  did  not  know  the  truth,  and  who  now, 
knowing  the  truth,  loves  both  his  parents  with  his 
clear,  candid  soul  and  is  no  longer  in  doubt,  but 
knows." 

The  old  man  slowly  shook  his  head  with  the  tall, 
ivory  forehead,  while  his  gnarled  hands  trembled: 

"  Henri,  you  can  thank  God  if  your  child,  whose 
purity  you  have  put  to  so  severe  a  test,  emerges  from 
that  test  unstained." 

Van  der  Welcke  was  silent,  out  of  respect.  He 
felt  himself,  notwithstanding  his  love,  so  far  re- 
moved from  his  father  that  his  heart  was  wrung 
and  he  thought: 

"  Will  Addie  ever,  ever  be  so  far  removed  from 
me?  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  old  man  often  reverted  to  that  conversation : 

"  Henri,  can  you  imagine  me,  your  father,  speak- 
ing to  you,  when  you  were  thirteen,  about  a  sin,  a 
crime  I  had  committed?  " 

No,  Van  der  Welcke  could  never  have  imagined 
it!  He  was  sorry  now  that  he  had  told  his  father 
so  much,  seeing  how  shocked  the  old  man  was.  And, 
though  he  tried  to  find  soothing  words,  in  order  to 
calm  his  father  after  that  shock,  still  everything  that 
he  said  sounded  too  cynical,  too  modern,  too  flippant 
almost;  and  he  no  longer  answered,  but  preferred  to 
avoid  the  subject,  when  the  old  man  returned  to  it 
daily,  shaking  his  head  and  making  his  comments. 
And  Van  der  Welcke  was  obliged  to  smile  when  his 
father  often  closed  those  comments  with  the  remark: 
"  Don't  let  your  mother  know  anything  about  it." 
No,  he  did  not  tell  his  mother,  because  his  father 
ordered  him  to  leave  his  mother  out  of  all  this  cyn- 
ical philosophy  and  atheistical  lack  of  principle,  be- 
cause his  father  thought  that  it  would  hurt  her,  his 
wife,  whom  he  had  always  kept  secluded  from  all 
knowledge  of  the  outside  world,  until  the  scandal  in 
Rome  had  come  as  a  shock  to  both  of  them.  And 
even  then,  in  the  years  that  followed,  he  had  always 
hidden  as  much  as  possible  of  the  world  from  his 
wife,  holding  that  a  woman,  whatever  her  age,  need 
not  know,  need  not  read,  need  not  discuss,  need  not 

349 


350  SMALL    SOULS 

reflect  upon  all  those  things  which,  far  removed  from 
the  two  of  them,  were  sin:  sin  such  as  their  son  had 
committed.  .  .  . 

Van  der  Welcke  now  for  the  first  time  fully  real- 
ized how  grievous  the  shock  of  the  scandal  must  have 
been  to  both  of  them,  years  ago.  He,  young  though 
he  was  and  but  lately  emancipated  from  his  parents, 
had  at  once  lost  so  much  of  those  strict  principles 
in  his  life  in  Rome,  in  his  contact  with  women  of  the 
world,  in  his  polished  drawing-room  talk  on  soul- 
weariness  with  Constance;  and  he  now  for  the  first 
time  fully  understood  why  they  had  not  wished  to 
see  the  two  of  them  and  why  years  had  to  elapse 
before  there  could  be  any  question  of  forgiveness. 
And,  however  much  he  had  longed  for  his  father,  in 
Brussels,  he  now  felt  that  this  longing  was  an  illu- 
sion; that  his  father  was  a  stranger  to  him  now  and 
he  a  stranger  to  his  father:  two  strangers  to  each 
other,  whom  only  a  remembrance  of  former  days 
had  brought  together  again.  And,  curiously,  though, 
as  a  child,  he  had  liked  his  father  better  than  his 
v  mother,  his  love  now  seemed  to  turn  more  to  his 
mother,  who  had  never  become  a  stranger,  who  had 
always  remained  the  mother,  silently  reading  her 
forbidden  book,  longing  simply  for  her  child,  to 
whom  the  voices  had  sent  her.  .  .  . 

"  But,  just  as  my  father  would  never  have  spoken 
out  to  me,  no  more  would  I  ever  have  gone  bicycling 
with  my  father?"  thought  Van  der  Welcke,  as  he 
darted  with  Addie  along  the  smooth  roads  towards 
the  Zeist  Woods. 


SMALL    SOULS  351 

They  were  like  two  brothers,  an  elder  and  a 
younger  brother,  neither  of  them  tall,  but  both  fairly 
broad,  both  with  something  delicate  and  high-bred 
and  yet  something  powerful  in  their  build — Van  der 
Welcke  was  young  still  and  slender  for  his  nine-and- 
thirty  years — and  both,  under  the  same  sort  of  cap, 
had  the  same  face,  the  same  steel-blue  eyes,  the  same 
straight  profile,  with  its  short  nose,  well-formed 
mouth  and  broad  chin,  though  one  was  a  man  and 
the  other  a  boy.  They  pedalled  and  pedalled  and 
devoured  the  roads  on  that  scorching  August  morn- 
ing, talking  gaily  like  two  friends. 

"  Let's  stop  here,  Addie,  and  take  a  rest,"  said 
Van  der  Welcke,  at  length,  out  of  breath. 

They  alighted,  leant  their  machines  against  a  cou- 
ple of  trees,  flung  themselves  on  the  mound  of 
needles  under  the  fir-trees,  which  rose  silently  and 
peacefully,  calm  as  cathedral-pillars. 

"  I  say,  I'm  tired,"  said  Van  der  Welcke,  feeling 
a  little  older,  for  the  moment,  than  his  son.  "  Ad- 
die,  how  you  take  it  out  of  your  father!  " 

Addie  laughed,  pulled  off  his  cap  and  wiped  his 
forehead  with  his  handkerchief.  Van  der  Welcke 
rested  his  head  on  Addie's  knee. 

"  Move  higher  up :  you're  not  comfortable  like 
that,"  said  Addie. 

And,  catching  his  father  under  the  arm-pits,  he 
hoisted  him  up  a  bit: 

"  No,  that  won't  do  either,"  he  said.  "  Look 
here,  you're  squashing  my  stomach !  " 

44  Is  this  better?" 


352  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Yes,  if  you  keep  still,  old  chap,  and  don't  move, 
you  can  stay  like  that." 

And  he  passed  his  fingers  through  his  father's 
short,  curly  hair,  while  Van  der  Welcke  lay  silent, 
closed  his  eyes  and  thought: 

"  Fancy  me,  when  I  was  fourteen,  pulling  up  my 
father  by  his  arms  and  saying  to  him,  *  Look  here, 
you're  squashing  my  stomach!  ...  If  you  keep 
still,  old  chap,  you  can  stay  like  that  1  ' 

And  he  suddenly  began  to  splutter  with  laughter. 

"  I  say,  what's  up?     What  are  you  laughing  at?  " 

"  Addie,  I  was  thinking,  I  was  thinking  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  what  were  you  thinking?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  .  .  ." 

And  Van  der  Welcke  began  to  wobble  up  and 
down  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  but  I  say!  Woa!  woa!  Don't  go  jump- 
ing about  on  my  stomach  like  that !  Hi !  Stop  I 
Keep  still !  What's  the  joke  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  ...  of  your  Grandpapa's  face 
...  if  ...  when  I  was  your  age  ...  I  had 
hauled  him  up  like  that  by  his  arms  and  said  to  him, 
'  If  you  keep  still  ...  if  you  keep  still.  .  .  ! ' 

Addie's  sense  of  humour  made  him  see  the  pic- 
ture at  once:  Grandpapa,  getting  on  for  forty  and 
very  stately  and  dignified,  and  Papa,  a  boy  like  him- 
self; and  Papa  saying: 

"If  you  keep  still,  old  chap,  you  can  stay  like 
that!" 

And  both  of  them  burst  with  laughter,  one  on  top 
of  the  other;  and  Addie,  whom  his  father's  weight 


SMALL   SOULS  353 

prevented  from  laughing  as  he  would  have  liked  to, 
flung  his  legs  madly  in  the  air,  almost  stood  on  his 
head,  until  Van  der  Welcke  tumbled  backwards,  with 
his  head  lower  than  his  feet: 

"  Bother  you !     I  was  just  so  comfortable !  " 

Addie  took  pity  on  Papa,  pulled  him  up  again  un- 
der his  arms,  dragged  him  about  most  disrespectfully, 
first  shoved  his  head  on  his  chest  .  .  .  no,  that  hurt 
.  .  .  then  a  little  lower  down  ...  on  his  stomach. 
.  .  .  There,  he  could  stay  like  that.  .  .  . 

But  Van  der  Welcke  kept  on  laughing  like  a  luna- 
tic. And  Addie  was  the  first  to  recover  his  serious- 
ness: 

"  Father,  stop  it  now!  Stop  shaking  about  like 
that!" 

Van  der  Welcke  closed  his  eyes  blissfully.  The 
scent  of  the  steaming  pines  floated  on  the  summery 
air;  the  needles  glistened  and  gave  off  their  fragrance. 
And  Van  der  Welcke  fell  asleep,  with  his  head  in 
his  son's  lap. 

"Dear  old  Father!"  thought  Addie;  and  he 
stroked  his  father's  round,  curly  head. 

He  looked  down  at  him  and,  so  as  not  to  disturb 
his  father's  sleep,  sat  motionless,  with  his  back 
against  a  tree.  He  looked  down  at  him:  dear  old 
Father!  .  .  .  But  he  was  not  old,  his  father:  he 
was  young.  .  .  .  And,  all  at  once,  it  seemed  to  Ad- 
die that  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time:  his  father  was 
young.  And  he  thought  to  himself  how  strange  it 
was  that,  when  you  are  young  yourself,  you  call 
everybody  old:  Granny  van  Lowe  and  Grandpapa 


354  SMALL    SOULS 

and  Grandmamma  van  der  Welcke  were  old;  and 
Uncle  Ruyvenaer  and  Auntie  were  old;  and  the  two 
old  aunts,  Auntie  Rine  and  Auntie  Tine,  were  very 
old,  regular  old  mummies.  But  Papa,  Papa  was 
A  young.  Why,  he  was  only  a  year  or  two  older  than 
Uncle  Paul,  who  was  always  the  young  man,  the 
dandy,  with  his  exquisite  coats  and  beautiful  ties. 
And  Papa  looked  younger  than  Uncle  Paul,  Papa 
certainly  looked  younger.  .  .  .  Addie  bent  over 
him,  while  he  slept.  He  lay  quietly  sleeping,  with 
his  face  three-quarters  turned  on  Addie's  lap.  And 
Addie,  seeing  for  the  first  time  that  Papa  was  young, 
studied  his  face.  Oh,  how  young  Papa  was :  he  was 
younger  than  Mamma !  He  looked  much  younger ; 
he  looked  almost  like  an  elder  brother  of  Addie's. 
His  hair,  thinning  ever  so  little  over  the  temples, 
was  still  quite  brown:  soft,  short,  curly  brown  hair, 
almost  close-cropped,  but  curling  just  a  little,  like 
his  own.  His  forehead  was  white,  like  that  of  a 
statue,  without  a  wrinkle,  had  kept  white  under  the 
peak  of  his  cycling-cap;  and  his  cheeks,  a  little  blue 
from  shaving,  were  healthily  bronzed.  His  eyelids 
were  young,  his  lids  now  closed  in  sleep ;  his  straight 
nose  was  young  and  his  mouth,  with  the  short,  thick, 
curly  moustache  above  it.  His  frame  was  young; 
and  on  Addie's  knees  lay  his  young  hands,  small, 
broad  and  dainty,  with  carefully-tended  nails :  Addie 
looked  at  his  own  finger-nails,  boy's  nails,  which  were 
torn  rather  than  cut.  .  .  .  How  strange  that  Papa 
should  be  so  young!  He  noticed  it  for  the  first  time. 
And  for  the  first  time  he  felt  himself  to  have  grown 


SMALL    SOULS  355 

older,  no  longer  quite  a  child,  a  boy  still,  but  grown 
into  a  young  man,  even  though  he  was  only  fourteen. 
.  .  .  Yes,  when  you  were  a  child,  a  real  child,  you 
looked  upon  anybody  older  than  yourself  as  just  old. 
Now,  he  was  astounded :  how  young  Papa  was ;  and 
how  much  older  Mamma  was !  True,  her  face  was 
young  still,  but  she  had  grey  hair,  she  was  forty- 
three.  .  .  .  He  could  imagine  Papa  with  a  very 
young  wife,  a  girl  almost,  like  one  of  the  cousins, 
Louise  or  Emilie,  or  Floortje:  Papa  and  a  wife  like 
that  would  make  a  good  pair.  .  .  .  How  young 
he  was,  how  young  he  was !  .  .  .  He  was  now  sleep- 
ing like  a  child,  on  Addie's  stomach,  peacefully 
breathing.  .  .  .  Dear  old  Father!  .  .  .  No,  not 
a  bit  old:  as  young  as  a  brother,  as  a  friend,  as  a 
chum.  So  jolly  too  and  so  mad  sometimes.  .  .  . 
And  then  suddenly  he  would  try  to  be  the  stern 
parent!  Dear  Father! — Addie  laughed — That 
didn't  come  off  at  all!  He  loved  him  like  that:  so 
young,  such  a  friend,  such  a  chum,  such  a  brother. 
.  .  .  Mamma  was  his  mother,  always,  even  though 
he  did  sometimes  flirt  with  her;  but  Papa  was  not  a 
Papa,  Papa  was  his  friend  and  his  brother.  But, 
young  though  Papa  was,  Addie  nevertheless  thought 
it  strange  that  he  had  said  to  him  so  often: 
"  My  life  is  shattered,  my  career  is  done  for." 
Why  was  that?  Was  it  only  because  Papa  had 
had  to  leave  the  diplomatic  service  when  he  was  still 
quite  young  and  had  married  Mamma?  But  Addie 
was  a  sensible  and  prematurely  intelligent  child;  and 
his  bright,  young  intelligence  could  not  admit  that ; 


356  SMALL   SOULS 

and,  suddenly,  Addle  thought,  if  things  really  were 
as  Papa  declared — his  life  shattered,  his  career  done 
for — then  Addie  thought  it  wrong,  disapproved  of 
it,  thought  it  weak  of  Papa,  weak,  morbid  almost, 
yes,  morbid.  How  was  it  possible  that  Papa,  since 
the  day  when  he  had  sent  in  his  resignation,  had 

\  never  done  anything  but  complain  of  that  ruined 
career,  reproaching  Mamma  with  it,  silently  or  out 

>  loud,  and  only  picking  up  a  trifle  at  Brussels  with 
commissions  on  wine  and  insurances,  whereas  there 
was  so  much  else:  life,  the  world,  the  whole  world 
open  before  him !  And  to  him,  to  the  boy  himself, 
it  was  as  though  wide  prospects  stretched  out  before 
him,  which  as  yet  he  only  divined  as  a  dream  of  the 
future,  which  as  yet  he  only  felt  to  be  there,  to  exist 
for  any  one  who  is  young  and  strong  and  healthy 
and  has  brains.  But,  while  he  thus  wondered  and 
disapproved  within  himself — so  weak:  why  so  weak? 
— he  felt  a  sort  of  fond  and  gentle  pity  amidst  his 
wonder  and  disapproval,  combined  with  a  sort  of 
need  to  grow  still  fonder  of  that  father,  who  was  so 
young,  so  strong  and  ...  so  weak.  His  boyish 
hand  rested  gently  on  his  father's  curly  hair,  stroked 
it  gently  while  his  father  lay  sleeping;  and,  with  a 
sort  of  tenderness,  the  boy  thought: 

14  Why  are  you  like  that?  How  can  you  be  like 
that?  Why  have  you  never  overcome  that  weak- 
ness, become  manlier,  firmer?  Poor,  poor  Fa- 
ther! .  .  ." 

And  it  was  strange,  but,  while  he  disapproved,  he 
felt  his  love  increase,  as  the  love  of  the  stronger 


SMALL   SOULS  357 

goes  out  to  the  weaker  and  lesser:  the  stronger  the 
one  feels,  the  weaker  the  other  appears  to  him;  and 
thus  the  instinct  is  developed  to  protect  and  care  for 
that  other.  And  now  he  remained  stock-still,  think- 
ing that  he  had  really  tired  his  father  out,  for  they 
had  ridden  like  mad  that  morning,  intoxicated  with 
the  smooth  length  of  the  roads,  giddied  with  exces- 
sive speed. 

He  remained  stock-still,  as  though  he  himself  were 
a  father  who  was  letting  his  tired  child  sleep  in  his 
arms.  And,  while  he  sat  gazing  at  that  young  face 
of  his  father's,  that  white  forehead  divided  with  a 
sharp  stripe  from  the  blue,  bronzed  cheeks,  there 
fluttered  through  his  vision  those  new  thoughts,  like 
birds  that  were  learning  to  fly,  those  dreams  of  wide 
prospects  stretching  away  to  dim  futures  at  which 
he  only  guessed  as  yet,  because  the  world  was  so 
wide  and  life  so  big.  And,  though  these  fledgling 
thoughts  were  all  ignorant  of  the  world  and  of  life, 
they  fluttered  to  and  fro,  fluttered  away  and  then 
back  to  the  nest,  where  they,  the  new-born  thoughts, 
settled  upon  that  greatest  and  strongest  and  most 
conscious  feeling,  that  of  love  for  the  father  who 
was  so  young  that  he  was  like  a  brother  and  so  weak 
that  he  was  as  a  child. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

CONSTANCE  was  much  alone  during  those  days.  She 
was  even  more  lonely  than  she  had  ever  been  in 
Brussels — when  Van  der  Welcke  was  away  about  his 
wines  or  his  insurances — because  this  was  the  first 
time  that  she  had  been  parted  from  Addie.  She 
saw  her  mother  almost  every  day,  however;  but, 
for  the  rest,  she  mostly  stayed  at  home,  just  as  she 
had  very  often  stayed  at  home  in  Brussels.  A  gen- 
tle melancholy  had  come  upon  her,  after  her  fits  of 
depression,  a  melancholy  that  impelled  her  to  be  much 
at  home  and  much  by  herself.  She  was  a  stay-at- 
home  woman:  her  house  had  the  well-tended  and 
attractive  and  comfortable  appearance  of  a  house 
which  is  loved  by  its  occupant  with  the  unadventurous 
feeling  that  home  is  the  safest  place.  She  busied 
herself  in  the  mornings  in  a  quiet  way,  did  her  house- 
keeping, gave  her  orders  quietly  and  methodically; 
and  her  house  always  had  an  atmosphere  of  cosy, 
restful  well-being,  which  seemed  to  calm  her  and 
persuade  her  to  stay  in  it.  The  two  maids,  with 
whom  she  was  always  the  calm,  pleasant  mistress  of 
the  house,  liked  her,  did  their  work  quietly  and  soon 
learnt  what  was  expected  of  them.  During  these 
days  when  she  was  alone,  she  went  all  over  the  house 
with  them,  made  them  give  Van  der  Welcke's  room 
and  Addie's  room  a  thorough  cleaning,  went  through 
every  corner  of  her  cupboards  with  her  gentle,  mind- 

358 


SMALL    SOULS  359 

ful  fingers,  the  fingers  of  a  dainty  woman  who  im- 
parted something  of  her  own  daintiness  to  every- 
thing that  she  touched. 

She  was  not  a  great  reader,  did  not  play  the  piano, 
was  not  even  particularly  cultured.  As  a  child,  she 
had  been  fond  of  fairy-tales;  as  a  child,  she  had 
even  invented  fairy-tales;  but,  apart  from  that,  she 
did  not  care  much  for  literature;  poetry  she  regarded 
as  insincere;  and  she  did  not  know  much  about  music. 
But  there  was  something  soft  and  pretty  and  distin- 
guished about  her,  something  exquisite  and  feminine, 
especially  now  that  her  vanity  was  really  dead.  She 
had  an  innate  taste  for  never  doing  or  saying  any- 
thing that  was  ugly  or  harsh  or  coarse;  and  it  was 
only  when  her  nerves  got  the  better  of  her  that  she 
could  lose  her  temper  and  fly  into  a  passion.  But, 
owing  especially  to  her  sadness  and  to  the  grey  and 
dismal  years  which  she  had  passed,  she  had  devel- 
oped a  very  sensitive,  soft  heart,  almost  hypersen- 
sitive and  oversoft.  A  word  of  sympathy  at  once 
fell  upon  her  like  kindly  dew  and  made  her  love 
whoever  uttered  it.  She  had  become  very  fond  of 
her  mother,  more  so  than  formerly,  appreciating  in 
Mamma  the  mother  who  kept  her  children  together. 
She  also  shared  that  family-affection,  that  strange - 
fondness  for  all  her  kith  and  kin.  But  she  often  ex-  , 
perienced  what  Mamma  never  felt:  the  disappoint- 
ment and  depression  and  discouragement  of  lov- 
ing with  a  love  thajt  was  deep  and  inclusive 
those  whose  changing,  complex  interests  were  for 
ever  taking  them  farther  and  farther  out  of 


360  SMALL    SOULS 

reach.  At  such  times,  she  just  remained  at  home, 
in  her  own  house,  wrapped  herself  in  her  gen- 
tle melancholy,  went  over  the  house  with  the  maids, 
who  liked  her,  in  order  that  everything  might 
be  very  nice  and  neat  She  had  nothing  of 
the  Dutch  housewife  about  her;  and  the  maids  often 
told  her  that  Mrs.  So-and-so  used  to  do  things  this 
way  and  Mrs.  What's-her-name  that  way.  But  she 
had  so  much  tact  that  they  did  as  she  wished  and 
accepted  her  distribution  of  hours  and  duties;  and 
her  house  was  always  in  order,  comfortable,  fit  to 
live  in.  She  had  the  gentle  little  fads  of  a  woman, 
who  has  no  great  intellect  and  who  takes  pleasure 
in  almost  simple,  childish  little  femininities.  If  she 
happened  to  have  a  headache  or  felt  out  of  sorts, 
she  thought  it  pleasant  to  lie  on  the  sofa  in  her  bed- 
room with  a  heap  of  fashion-plates  around  her  and 
quietly  to  think  out  all  sorts  of  costumes,  which  she 
did  not  require  and  did  not  order,  but  which  she 
just  thought  out,  created,  with  the  graceful  fancy  of 
a  dainty  woman  who  loves  pretty  clothes.  Or  she 
could  amuse  herself  with  tidying  up  her  cupboards, 
going  through  all  her  laces  and  ribbons,  folding  them 
up  neatly,  smoothing  them  out,  laying  them  in  the 
different  compartments  of  exquisite  little  Empire 
chests-of-drawers  and  scenting  them  with  orris-root. 
Or  she  could  go  through  her  trinkets — she  had  not 
many — polishing  her  jewels  and  trying  the  effect  of 
them  upon  herself  with  a  pleased  laugh  at  those 
pretty  things  which  sparkle  so  brightly  and  enhance 
a  woman's  beauty.  She  was  not  interested  in  the 


SMALL    SOULS  361 

larger  questions,  did  not  understand  feminism,  was 
a  little  afraid  of  socialism,  especially  because  the  poor 
were  so  dirty  and  smelt  so  horribly.  Still,  she  was 
charitable,  though  she  was  not  at  all  well-off,  and 
often  gave  money  to  the  poor  and  dirty,  hoping  above 
all  that  they  would  wash  themselves.  And  yet  she 
had  a  fairly  logical  intelligence,  even  though  she  was 
not  cultured,  even  though  she  did  not  ponder  deeply 
on  social  questions  or  on  art.  Now  that  her  vanity 
was  dead,  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world,  who 
thought  the  world  tedious  and  tiresome  and  felt  just 
a  need  for  sympathy  and  soft  compassion.  And  only 
sometimes  did  the  strings  within  her  seem  to  become 
more  tensely  stretched  and  there  sounded  through 
her  something  like  a  vague  sadness  that  suddenly 
made  her  think  and  say  to  herself: 

"  How  small  we  are  and  how  small  everything 
that  we  do  is!  I  am  growing  old  now;  and  what 
has  there  been  in  my  existence  ?  Could  there  be  any- 
thing else  in  life  ?  Or  is  life  just  like  that,  for  every- 
body? " 

In  point  of  fact,  she  herself  did  not  know  that 
her  heart  had  never  spoken.  She  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Van  der  Welcke,  at  Rome,  because  of  his  good 
looks,  in  that  atmosphere  of  vanity  and  drawing- 
room  comedy  which  had  made  her,  after  reading  a 
couple  of  fashionable  French  novels,  talk  sadly  about 
her  soul-weariness,  parrot-wise,  neither  knowing  nor 
feeling  aught  of  what  she  said.  She  never  even 
thought  that  there  was  another  sort  of  love  than 
that  which  she  had  felt  for  Van  der  Welcke;  and, 


362  SMALL    SOULS 

if  she  happened  to  read  about  it  somewhere  in  one 
of  her  occasional  fits  of  reading,  she  would  think: 

"  It's  only  a  book;  and  the  author  is  writing  fine 
words." 

But,  at  the  same  time,  her  gentle  nature  was  too 
superlatively  and  exquisitely  feminine  and  also  too 
motherly  to  look  upon  physical  love  as  the  only 
needful  thing.  No,  what  she  had  felt  as  a  duty 
in  the  case  of  her  first  husband  and  as  passion  in 
the  case  of  Van  der  Welcke  had  soon  turned  to 
mother-love.  Married,  in  her  passion  she  had  at 
once  longed  for  a  child.  And  she  had  worshipped 
her  child  from  the  very  first  day.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

CONSTANCE  was  in  her  bedroom  one  morning,  ar- 
ranging all  sorts  of  things,  when  the  servant  came 
and  said: 

"  Mrs.  van  Saetzema  is  here,  ma'am." 

Constance'  eyelashes  trembled  and  her  lips  con- 
tracted. She  would  have  liked  to  make  an  excuse, 
to  say  that  she  was  not  at  home;  but  she  refrained 
because  of  the  maid: 

"  Very  well,  Truitje;  ask  her  to  come  up." 

Adolphine  came  upstairs  noisily,  with  elaborate 
gaiety: 

"  Good-morning,  Constance,  how  are  you  ?  We 
hardly  ever  see  you  now.  I  say,  have  you  been 
ill?" 

"  No." 

"  You  are  not  looking  well.  Why  is  it  so  dark 
inhere?" 

"Dark?" 

'  Yes,  I  should  feel  stifled  in  a  light  like  this. 
Oh,  of  course,  it's  the  trees  opposite!  They  take 
away  all  the  light.  My  goodness,  this  is  a  gloomy 
house  of  yours!  Aren't  your  husband  and  boy  back 
yet?" 

"  No." 

"  I  say,  why  didn't  you  go  with  them  ?  " 

"  For  no  special  reason." 

"  They're  a  very  particular  old  couple,  aren't  they, 
363 


364  SMALL    SOULS 

that  father  and  mother  of  your  husband's?  What- 
ever are  you  doing?  " 

"  I'm  tidying  up  my  cupboard." 

"  You'd  do  better  to  go  for  a  walk:  you're  looking 
so  pale." 

"  But  I'm  perfectly  well." 

"  I've  come  to  ask  if  you'll  come  to  dinner  at  my 
house  the  day  after  to-morrow.  But  you  must  make 
yourself  smart.  We  shall  be  fourteen.  My  first 
dinner-party.  It's  a  summer  dinner.  But  we  know 
such  an  awful  lot  of  people;  and  I  always  begin  my 
dinners  very  early.  You  see,  it's  quite  plain,  at  my 
place,  but  jolly.  Bertha  doesn't  begin  till  January; 
but  she  works  everything  out  so  closely.  I  like 
doing  things  handsomely.  So  it's  settled,  isn't  it: 
you'll  come?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Adolphine.  It's  very  nice  of  you  to 
ask  me,  but  I  can't  come." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know  your  friends.  And  I  don't  care 
about  going  out." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Adolphine,  nettled.  "  I  suppose  my 
friends  are  not  smart  enough  for  you?  I  can  tell 
you,  I  have  the  Hijdrechts  coming  and  the  Erken- 
bouts  and  the  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  not  saying  anything  about  your  friends,  but 
I  don't  care  for  dinner-parties." 

"  And  you  give  them  yourself!  " 

"  I?  " 

"  Yes,  as  I  saw  for  myself  not  so  long  ago." 


SMALL    SOULS  365 

"  I  don't  give  dinner-parties.  I  have  Van  Vrees- 
wijck  to  dinner  now  and  again." 

"  To  dinner  .  .  .  with  pink  candles  on  the  ta- 
ble?" 

"  Yes,  with  pink  candles." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  come  .  .  .  this  is  a 
free  country.  .  .  ." 

"Fortunately!" 

"  You're  rather  upset  this  morning,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

u  Is  it  just  because  our  boys  had  a  fight?  You've 
adopted  quite  a  different  tone  to  me  since:  I've  no- 
ticed. /  can't  help  it  if  boys  choose  to  fight." 

"  Adolphine,  don't  let  us  talk  of  matters  that  can 
make  us  say  things  which  we  might  regret." 

But  Adolphine  was  angry  because  Constance  had 
refused  to  come  to  her  dinner.  Her  invitations  had 
all  gone  wrong  and  she  wanted  Constance;  also,  she 
thought  that  Constance  did  not  value  the  invitation; 
also,  she  thought  Constance  a  snob,  with  that  ever- 
lasting Vreeswijck  of  hers,  that  Court  man.  .  .  . 

"  Regret?"  she  said,  coldly.  "  I  never  say  any- 
thing that  I  have  to  regret.  But  I  can't  help  it  if 
people  at  the  Hague  are  saying  unpleasant  things 
about  us  all  just  now  I  " 

And,  working  herself  into  a  state  of  nervous  ex- 
citement, she  tried  to  cry,  in  order  to  make  Con- 
stance, who  was  so  unkind,  feel,  once  and  for  all, 
that  not  only  she,  Adolphine,  but  the  whole  family 
had  to  suffer  no  end  of  pain  because  of  Constance. 


366  SMALL    SOULS 

And  she  managed  to  get  the  tears  into  her  eyes  and 
squeezed  them  out. 

But  Constance  remained  indifferent: 

"  What  sort  of  things?  "  she  asked. 

"What  sort  of  things?"  snapped  Adolphine,  fu- 
riously, crying  with  temper,  offended  at  the  refusal, 
forgetting  all  the  nice  things  that  Constance  had 
said  about  Floortje's  trousseau,  hating  her  sister  at 
the  moment.  "What  sort  of  things?  That  you 
are  not  Papa's  daughter!  " 

"That  I  .  .  .?" 

"That  you  are  not  Papa's  daughter!  "  shrieked 
the  other,  getting  more  excited  at  every  word,  de- 
liberately screwing  herself  up  into  a  frenzy  of  nerves. 
"  They're  slandering  Mamma,  they're  slandering 
Mamma!  Yes,  they're  saying  that  you're  not 
Papa's  daughter !  " 

Constance  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  it?  "  demanded  Adol- 
phine. 

"  Nothing." 

"Nothing?  Nothing?"  cried  Adolphine,  beside 
herself  because  Constance  remained  so  cool  at  such 
a  revelation.  "Nothing?  Oh,  I  expect  you're  ac- 
customed to  have  people  talking  about  you.  Well, 
I'm  not,  d'you  see?  I  have  always  been  used  to 
decency  and  respectability  in  my  circle,  among  my 
friends.  No  one  ever  talked  about  us  before.  No 
one  ever  said  that  7  wasn't  Papa's  daughter.  .  .  ." 

"  You  can't  tell.  There's  time  yet !  "  said  Con- 
stance. 


SMALL    SOULS  367 

"Yes,  you  don't  care!"  Adolphine  blubbered, 
furiously.  "  You,  with  your  stuck-up  coolness, 
you're  so  eaten  up  with  conceit  that  you  don't  take 
anything  to  heart.  I'm  not  like  that.  I'm  sensi- 
tive, I'm  easily  affected,  it  hurts  me  when  people  talk 
about  us.  But  then  I'm  not  used  to  it  as  you  are !  " 

And  Adolphine  kept  squeezing  the  tears  out  of 
her  eyes,  wishing  to  convey  that  she  was  misunder- 
stood and  misjudged  and  very  sensitive;  wishing 
also  to  make  Constance  feel  that  it  was  Constance' 
fault  and  that  there  was  plenty  more  that  was  Con- 
stance' fault.  Constance,  however,  remained  cool. 

Though  a  single  unfortunate  word  from  her  hus- 
band was  enough  to  set  her  nerves  on  edge  and  her 
temper  seething,  she  kept  calm  and  cold  towards  her 
sister,  because,  after  the  fight  between  their  boys, 
she  had  settled  accounts  with  Adolphine,  written 
her  off  as  it  were;  and  this  feeling  had  depressed 
her  too  much  to  allow  her  now  to  excite  herself 
into  a  quarrel.  She  wondered  if  she  was  overdoing 
it;  and,  to  settle  the  matter,  she  said: 

"  I  confess  that  I  have  never  had  such  an  experi- 
ence of  backbiting  as  here,  at  the  Hague;  in  Brus- 
sels, at  any  rate,  no  one  ever  doubted  the  legitimacy 
of  my  child.  But  here — and  even  in  your  house, 
Adolphine — people  seem  to  think  that  he  is  not  my 
husband's  son." 

"How  can  I  help  that?"  Adolphine  began  to 
blubber. 

"  No,  you  can't  help  it;  at  least  I'm  prepared  to 
believe  you  can't.  But  I  did  hope  that,  if  any  one 


368  SMALL    SOULS 

in  your  house  spoke  unkindly  of  your  sister,  you 
would  have  stood  up  for  her,  against  your  children, 
who  perhaps  did  not  quite  realize  all  the  mischief 
which  their  words  might  cause.  .  .  .  Let  me  finish, 
Adolphine:  I  am  quite  calm  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
this  calmly.  ...  If  Addie  had  dared  to  speak  of 
you  in  my  presence  as  your  children  must  have 
spoken  of  me,  I  should  have  been  very  severe  with 
him.  I  was  under  the  illusion  that  I  might  expect 
as  much  from  you.  I  thought  that  there  was  still 
a  family-bond,  a  family-affection,  a  family-pride 
among  all  of  us;  I  thought  that  there  was  a  mutual 
sympathy  among  us  great  enough,  even  though  there 
was  an  appearance  of  truth  in  people's  slanders,  for 
that  sympathy  and  pride  to  excuse  and  protect  and 
defend  the  one  who  was  slandered.  The  things 
that  can  be  said  about  me  are  no  secret.  They  are 
a  matter  of  general  knowledge ;  and  I  carry  the  pun- 
ishment for  my  sin  about  with  me  as  a  burden  on 
my  life.  But  I  have  nothing  more  to  reproach  my- 
self with  than  what  is  known  as  a  fact.  Don't  think 
that  I  am  making  light  of  it.  I  only  say  that  that 
is  all  there  is.  I  should  have  thought  that  you 
would  have  known  this,  that  you  would  have  believed 
this,  even  if  I  had  never  told  you.  Addie  is  Van 
der  Welcke's  son  as  surely  as  I  am  Papa's  daughter. 
What  people  like  to  invent  besides  is  no  concern  of 
mine.  I  can't  even  understand  why  they  care  to 
invent  at  all,  when  I  have  already  given  them  so 
much  that  is  true  to  discuss.  But  it  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  me,  Adolphine,  to  find  that  those 


SMALL    SOULS  369 

lies  could  be  countenanced  for  a  moment  in  your 
house." 

Adolphine,  seeing  that  her  pumped-up  tears  were 
making  no  impression,  had  time  to  recover  herself 
while  Constance  was  speaking.  '  Inwardly  furious, 
but  superficially  calm,  she  now  said,  spitefully,  in  a 
tone  of  sisterly  reproof: 

'  You  must  have  expected  some  disappointment 
on  returning  to  the  Hague?  " 

"  Perhaps,  but  not  this  disappointment  ...  if 
you  had  had  any  affection  for  me." 

"  Come,  Constance,  it's  not  as  if  I  wasn't  fond  of 
you.  But  it  might  have  been  better  if  you  had  not 
come  back." 

"  It's  a  little  late  to  speak  of  that  now,  Adol- 
phine :  I'm  here  and  I  mean  to  stay.  When  I  wrote 
to  Mamma  six  months  ago  .  .  ." 

"  Mamma  is  a  mother." 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  a  sister." 

"  I  am  not  the  only  one." 

"  I  hope  that  the  others  feel  more  affection  for 
me  and  more  indulgence  than  you  do." 

"  Bertha  was  against  your  coming.  So  was 
Karel." 

"  I  thank  you  for  telling  me ;  but,  as  I  said,  it  is 
too  late  now." 

"  Gerrit  and  the  others  don't  count,  because  they 
don't  see  people.  Bertha  and  Karel  and  I  have  our 
family,  our  friends." 

"  And  I  compromise  you  in  their  eyes,  do  I?  " 

"  Your  coming  here  raked  up  a  heap  of  things 


370  SMALL    SOULS 

which  had  been  long  forgotten.  And  I  know  as  a 
fact  that  your  father-  and  mother-in-law  were  against 
it." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal;  and  I  am  glad 
that  you  are  so  frank." 

"  I  am  always  frank." 

"  And  so  irreproachable." 

"  I  could  never  have  done  what  you  did,  never." 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  you  came  to  see  me  this  morn- 
ing, Adolphine.  And  that  we  have  had  this  quiet 
talk." 

"  If  you  had  written  to  me  at  the  time  and  asked 
my  advice,  instead  of  writing  to  Mamma  only,  I 
should  have  told  you  my  opinion  quietly,"  said  Adol- 
phine, with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  her  voice.  "  I 
should  have  recommended  you,  as  a  sister,  for  your 
own  sake,  not  to  come  back  to  the  Hague.  You 
have  become  quite  unsuited  for  Holland,  for  the 
Hague  and  for  living  among  your  family.  Every- 
thing in  your  ideas,  in  your  home  life,  in  your  way 
of  bringing  up  your  son  clashes  with  our  Dutch  no- 
tions of  what  is  right  and  decent  and  proper.  I'm 
not  saying  this  angrily,  you  know,  Constance:  I'm 
saying  it  calmly,  very  calmly.  I  daresay  that  is  best. 
You  dress  yourself  as  no  Dutchwoman  of  your  age 
would  think  of  doing.  The  fact  that  you  have  no 
one  to  your  house  except  a  friend  of  your  husband's 
causes  comment.  The  way  in  which  you  bring  up 
your  son  is  considered  exceptionally  lax." 

"Anything  more?" 

"  Yes,  there's  something  more :  why  did  you  ever 


SMALL    SOULS  371 

leave  Brussels?  That's  what  we  all  ask  ourselves. 
Bertha  was  saying,  only  the  other  day,  that  you 
would  make  things  impossible  for  her,  if  you  thought 
of  pushing  yourself  and  getting  yourself  presented. 
And  she  declared  positively  that  she  would  never 
ask  you  to  her  official  dinners." 

"  Anything  more?  " 

"  Anything  more,  anything  more :  what  more  do 
you  want?  I'm  not  saying  it  to  offend  you,  Con- 
stance, but  because  I  like  you  and  want  to  save  you 
from  further  disappointments.  Do  you  think  it 
pleasant  for  Bertha  and  me  to  have  our  friends 
talking  about  our  family  as  they  are  doing?  And 
that  they  do  so  is  your  fault  entirely." 

Constance'  hands  were  shaking;  and,  in  order  to 
employ  them,  she  began  to  fold  the  laces  lying  on 
the  table. 

"Is  that  real  Brussels?"  asked  Adolphine,  with 
apparent  guilelessness. 

"  Yes." 

"  Where  do  you  get  the  money,  Constance,  to 
spend  on  those  expensive  things  ?  " 

"  I  get  it  from  my  lovers,"  said  Constance. 

"  Wha-at?  "  cried  Adolphine,  in  a  terrified  voice. 

Constance  gave  a  nervous  laugh: 

"  I  tell  you,  from  all  my  lovers." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  things  like  that,  even  in  fun !  I 
thought  it  was  imitation  lace." 

'  Yes,  but  you  don't  know  much  about  lace,  do 
you?"  said  Constance,  very  calmly.  "Or  about 
diamonds?  And  you  have  not  the  least  notion  how 


372  SMALL    SOULS 

to  dress  yourself,  have  you?  I  sometimes  think 
you  look  very  dowdy,  Adolphine.  It  may  be  Dutch 
and  substantial,  but  I  consider  it  dowdy.  And,  on 
the  other  hand,  you  oughtn't  to  buy  such  rubbishy, 
shabby-genteel  things  as  you  do.  And  you  haven't 
much  notion  of  arranging  your  house,  either,  have 
you?  If  you  were  capable  of  understanding  my 
taste,  I  wouldn't  mind  helping  you  to  alter  your 
drawing-room.  But  you  would  have  to  begin  by 
getting  rid  of  those  horrible  antimacassars  and  those 
china  monkeys  and  dogs.  Do;  I  wish  you  would. 
And  choose  a  quieter  carpet.  .  .  .  Don't  you  find 
those  dinners  very  trying,  Adolphine?  I  should  say 
that  Bertha  is  more  at  home  in  that  sort  of  thing, 
isn't  she?  .  .  .  And  so  the  Erkenbouts  go  to  your 
dinners,  do  they?  I  should  have  thought  that  Bruis, 
of  the  Phonograaf,  was  more  in  your  set.  But  I 
was  forgetting:  you  haven't  a  set,  really;  you  have 
a  bit  of  everything,  an  omnium  gatherum.  .  .  . 
Curious,  isn't  it,  that  none  of  our  friends  of  the  old 
days — our  little  Court  set,  let  me  call  it — ever  come 
to  you  nowadays?  What's  the  reason?  ...  Of 
course,  you  have  to  make  your  house  attractive,  if 
you  want  to  keep  your  acquaintances.  ...  I  sup- 
pose you  don't  care  really  about  seeing  people.  It's 
such  hard  work  for  you.  .  .  .  You're  more  the 
good  mother  of  your  children,  though  I  consider 
your  girls,  at  least  Floortje  and  Caroline,  rather 
loud;  and,  as  for  your  boys,  you  seem  quite  unable 
to  teach  them  any  sort  of  manners.  .  .  .  Well,  if 
I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  if  you  want  to  alter  that 


SMALL    SOULS  373 

drawing-room  of  yours,  you  have  only  to  say  so  and 
we  will  fix  a  day.  .  .  ." 

Adolphine  had  listened  gasping,  unable  to  believe 
her  ears.  Had  Constance  gone  mad?  She  stood 
up,  shaking  all  over,  while  Constance,  with  apparent 
composure,  continued  to  fold  her  laces : 

"  You're  a  deceitful  creature !  "  she  hissed,  furi- 
ous, so  deeply  wounded  in  every  detail  of  her  vanity 
that  she  could  no  longer  control  herself. 

"Why?"  asked  Constance,  calmly.  "Perhaps 
I  was,  for  months,  with  a  view  to  winning  your  af- 
fection; and  that  was  why  I  spent  myself  in  praises 
admiring  Floortje's  trousseau.  But  now  that  I 
know  that  you  love  me  so  well,  now  that  we  have  had 
a  good,  sisterly  talk,  now  that  we  have  given  each 
other  our  advice  and  our  opinion,  I  see  no  further 
need  for  being  deceitful  and  I  too  prefer  to  express 
my  sisterly  feelings  with  the  frankest  sincerity." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't  like  Floortje's 
trousseau?"  asked  Adolphine,  raging. 

But  Constance  mastered  her  quivering  nerves : 

"  Adolphine,"  she  said,  coldly,  "  please  let  us  end 
this  conversation.  It  can't  matter  to  you  in  the  least 
whether  I,  your  despised  sister,  like  or  dislike  any- 
thing in  or  about  you.  Spiteful,  hateful  words  have 
been  spoken  between  us;  and  we  have  seen  into  each 
other's  souls.  You  never  had  any  affection  for  me, 
nor  any  indulgence  nor  mercy,  whereas  I  believed 
that  you  had  and  tried  to  find  a  sister  in  you.  I 
failed;  and  that  is  all.  There  is  nothing  more. 
We  will  end  this  conversation,  if  you  please;  and, 


374  SMALL    SOULS 

if  you  don't  mind,  when  we  meet  at  Mamma's  or 
elsewhere,  let  us  act  as  though  there  had  been  noth- 
ing said  between  us.  That  is  all  I  ask  of  you." 

She  rang.  The  parlour-maid  appeared.  Adol- 
phine  stood  staring  at  Constance;  and  her  lips  began 
to  swell  with  the  venom  of  the  words  which  she  felt 
rising  to  her  lips. 

"  It's  to  let  Mrs.  van  Saetzema  out,  Truitje," 
said  Constance,  quietly. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

CONSTANCE,  when  she  was  alone,  burst  into  a  fit 
of  nervous  sobbing.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  past,  that 
wretched  past,  which  always  clung  to  her,  which 
there  was  no  shaking  off!  She  thought  life  unjust 
and  the  family  and  everybody.  She  was  not  a 
wicked  woman:  there  was  only  one  mistake  to  be 
charged  against  her,  the  mistake  of  her  heedless 
youth;  and  were  the  consequences  to  last  for  ever? 
.  .  .  After  all,  what  she  now  wished  was  so 
little,  so  very  little,  that  she  could  not  understand 
why  it  remained  so  unattainable.  She  merely  asked 
to  live  quietly  at  the  Hague,  in  her  own  country,  and 
to  be  loved  a  little  by  all  her  relations,  for  whom  she 
felt  that  strange,  powerful  feeling,  that  family-affec- 
tion. That  was  all;  she  asked  for  nothing  more. 
She  demanded  nothing  more  of  life  than  to  be  al- 
lowed to  grow  old  like  that,  with  a  little  forgiveness 
and  forbearance  around  her,  and  then  to  see  her  boy 
grow  up  into  a  man,  while  she,  for  the  boy's  sake, 
would  endure  her  life,  as  best  she  could,  by  the  side  of 
her  husband.  That  was  all,  that  was  all.  Tfrat  was 
the  only  thing  that  she,  with  her  small  soul,  asked  of 
life;  and  she  asked  nothing  more;  and  it  was  as 
though  all  sorts  of  secret  enmities  around  her 
grudged  it  to  her.  Whereas  she  wished  for  nothing 
but  peace  and  quietness,  enmity  seemed  to  eddy 

37S 


376  SMALL    SOULS 

around  her.  Why  did  people  hate  her  so?  And 
why  could  they  not  make  somebody  else  or  some- 
thing else  the  subject  of  their  talk,  of  their  spiteful, 
malevolent  talk,  if  they  really  found  it  impossible  to 
do  without  talking? 

She  continued  greatly  dispirited  for  days,  went 
out  very  little,  seeing  only  her  mother,  to  whose 
house  she  went  regularly.  Paul  was  abroad;  and 
Adeline  was  expecting  her  confinement.  Mrs.  van 
Lowe  noticed  nothing  of  what  was  troubling  Con- 
stance; and,  when,  on  Sunday,  the  members  of  the 
family  all  met  again,  the  old  woman  was  radiant  in 
the  illusion  of  their  great  attachment  to  one  another. 
The  children  always  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  their 
disputes,  kept  her,  out  of  love  and  respect,  in  her 
dear  illusion.  Adolphine  never  spoke  cattishly  of 
Bertha,  in  Mamma's  presence;  was  amiable  to  Con- 
stance. The  old  lady  knew  nothing  of  the  quarrel 
between  Addie  and  Jaap,  nothing  of  the  explanation 
which  Van  der  Welcke  had  demanded  from  the  Van 
Saetzemas. 

When  her  husband  and  Addie  returned,  Constance 
spoke  casually  of  her  conversation  with  Adolphine. 
But,  for  the  rest,  she  remained  very  silent  and  soli- 
tary and  only  saw  Mamma  and,  just  orrce,  Adeline, 
the  quiet  little  mother,  expecting  her  eighth  child. 
And  once  she  went  with  her  mother  to  call  on  the 
old  aunts  in  their  little  villa  near  Scheveningen ;  and 
then  it  was: 

"How  are  you,  Dorine?" 

"What  do  you  say?" 


SMALL   SOULS  377 

"  Marie  asks  how  you  are,  Rine.  She  is  so  deaf, 
Marie." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right.  .  .  .     Who's  that?" 

And  Aunt  Dorine  pointed  to  Constance,  always 
failing  to  recognize  her,  with  the  stubbornness  of 
second  childhood. 

"  That's  Constance,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Lowe. 

"  That's  Gertrude !  "  Auntie  Tine  would  say  next. 
"Isn't  it,  Marie?  That's  Gertrude!" 

"  No,  Christine,  Gertrude  died  as  a  child  at  Buit- 
enzorg." 

But  Auntie  Tine  was  yelling  in  Auntie  Rine's  ear: 

"That's  Marie's  daughter!" 

"  Marie's  daughter?" 

"  Yes,  Gertrude,  Gertru-u-ude !  " 

Constance  smiled: 

"  Never  mind,  Mamma,"  she  whispered. 

And  Mamma  said  good-bye: 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Dorine  and  Christine." 

"What  d'you  say?" 

"  Good-bye,  Dorine  and  Christine ;  we  must  go." 

"  They've  got  to  go !  "  yelled  Auntie  Tine  in 
Auntie  Rine's  ear." 

"Oh,  have  they  got  to  go?  Where  are  they 
going?" 

"Home!" 

"Oh,  home?  Oh,  don't  they  live  here?  .  .  . 
Well,  good-bye,  Marie;  thanks  for  your  visit. 
Good-bye,  Gertrude !  You  are  Gertrude,  aren't 
you?" 

"  Ye-e-es !  "  Auntie  Tine  assured  her,  in  a  shrill, 


378  SMALL  SOULS 

long-drawn-out  yell.  "  She's  Ger-trude,  Marie's 
daugh-ter." 

"  Well,  then,  good-bye,  Gertrude." 

"  Never  mind,  Mamma,  let  them  think  I'm  Ger- 
trude," said  Constance,  softly,  indulgently,  while 
Mrs.  van  Lowe  became  a  little  irritable,  not  under- 
standing how  very  old  people  could  cling  so  stub- 
bornly to  an  opinion  and  a  little  sad  at  the  thought 
of  Gertrude,  who  was  dead. 

And  so  the  weeks  passed  and  the  months,  very 
quietly,  lonely  and  monotonously :  the  dreary  months 
of  the  unseasonable  cold,  wet  autumn,  with  heavy 
storms  whipping  the  trees  in  the  Kerkhoflaan,  the 
wind  incessantly  howling  round  the  house,  the  rain 
clattering  down.  Constance  hardly  ever  went  out, 
shut  herself  up  indoors,  as  though  her  soul  had  re- 
ceived a  hurt,  as  though  she  would  rather  hence- 
forward remain  safe  in  her  dear  rooms.  She  was 
very  silent,  she  looked  pale,  she  often  sat  thinking, 
pondering — she  hardly  knew  what — sunk  in  her 
melancholy,  staring  at  the  fury  of  the  storm  outside. 
She  did  not  often  have  scenes  with  Van  der  Welcke 
now,  as  though  a  brooding  sadness  had  numbed  her 
nerves.  At  half-past  four,  she  would  go  to  the  win- 
dow and  watch  longingly  for  her  son,  would  cheer 
up  a  little  when  she  saw  him,  when  he  talked 
nicely  and  pleasantly,  her  boy  who  was  becoming 
more  of  a  man  daily.  But  she  did  not  see  very 
much  of  him  now  that  he  went  to  the  grammar- 
school  and  had  a  lot  of  work  to  do  in  the  evenings, 
which,  studious  by  nature,  he  did  conscientiously. 


SMALL    SOULS  379 

Van  Vreeswijck  came  to  dinner  once  every  two  or 
three  weeks,  generally  alone,  or  perhaps,  as  Paul 
was  still  abroad,  she  would  ask  Marianne  van 
Naghel,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond.  It  would  be 
one  of  those  cosy,  daintily-arranged  little  dinners 
which  she  knew  so  well  how  to  give;  and  that  was  the 
extent  of  her  social  doings. 

Thus  she  lived  in  herself  and  in  her  house.  The 
rooms  in  which  she  sat  always  reflected  herself,  a 
woman  of  elegant  and  refined  taste,  even  though 
she  was  not  exactly  artistic;  and  those  rooms  dis- 
played in  particular  the  inhabited,  sociable,  home- 
like appearance  that  comes  from  the  presence  of  a 
woman  who  is  much  indoors  and  finds  solace  in  her 
home.  And  round  about  her  the  lines  and  colours 
of  her  furniture  and  flowers,  her  knicknacks  and 
fancy-work  all  made  an  atmosphere  of  soft  fragrance 
peculiarly  her  own,  with  something  very  personal, 
something  delicate  and  intimate:  a  soft  dreaminess 
as  of  really  very  small,  simple  femininity,  without 
one  really  artistic  object  anywhere,  without  a  single 
water-colour  or  drawing  or  fashionable  novel;  and 
yet  with  nothing  in  colour  or  form  or  line  that  could 
offend  the  eye  of  an  artist:  on  the  contrary,  every- 
thing blending  into  a  perfect  harmony  of  small  ma- 
terial things  with  inner  personal  things  that  likewise 
had  no  greatness.  .  .  . 

One  day,  when  Truitje  brought  her  some  circu- 
lars, letters  and  bills  from  the  letter-box,  Constance' 
eye  fell  upon  a  newspaper  in  a  wrapper;  and  she 
opened  it.  She  read  the  title  of  the  little  sheet:  the 


38o  SMALL    SOULS 

Dwarskijker; *  and,  as  she  seldom  received  much 
by  post,  she  thought  that  it  must  have  been  sent  as 
an  advertisement.  Suddenly,  however,  she  remem- 
bered: the  Dwarskljker  was  an  odious  little  weekly 
paper  edited  by  a  disreputable  individual  who  pried 
into  all  the  secrets  of  the  great  Hague  families;  who 
had  often  been  tried  for  blackmail,  but  always  man- 
aged to  escape;  and  who  as  constantly  resumed  his 
vile  trade,  because  the  families  whom  he  attacked 
paid  hush-money,  whether  his  attacks  were  based 
on  truth  or  calumny.  Constance  was  about  to  tear 
up  the  paper  indignantly,  when  her  eye  caught  the 
name  of  Van  Aghel,  a  parody  obviously  meant  for 
Van  Naghel,  and  she  could  not  help  reading  on. 
She  then  read  a  nasty  little  article  against  her 
brother-in-law,  the  colonial  secretary,  an  article 
crammed  with  personal  attacks  on  Van  Naghel,  de- 
scribing him  as  a  great  nonentity,  who  had  made 
money  at  the  bar  in  India  by  means  of  a  shady 
Chinese  practice  and  had  been  shoved  on  in  his  ca- 
reer by  a  still  greater  and  more  pompous  nonentity, 
his  father-in-law,  the  ex-Governor-general  "  Van 
Leeuwen."  The  article  next  attacked  Van  Naghel's 
brother,  the  Queen's  Commissary  in  Overijssel,  and, 
in  conclusion,  it  promised,  in  a  subsequent  issue  of 
the  Dwarskljker  to  give  a  glimpse  into  the  im- 
morality of  the  other  relations  of  this  bourgeois  who 
had  battened  on  the  Chinese  and  who  had  rendered 
no  real  service  to  India.  And  the  writer  aimed 
very  pointedly  at  Mrs.  van  Naghel's  sister,  another 

1  The  Inspector. 


SMALL    SOULS  381 

woman  moving  in  those  exalted  circles  whose  end 
would  soon  be  nigh  in  the  better  order  of  things 
at  hand:  she  was  described  as  the  "  ex-ambassa- 
dress; "  and  he  wound  up  with  the  alluring  promise 
to  give,  next  week,  full  details  of  those  old  stories, 
which  were  always  interesting  because  they  afforded 
the  reader  a  peep  into  the  depravity  of  aristocratic 
society. 

Constance,  as  she  read  on,  felt  her  heart  beating, 
the  blood  rushing  to  her  cheeks;  her  hands  trembled, 
her  knees  shook,  she  felt  as  though  she  were  about  to 
faint.  She  was  growing  accustomed  to  oral  slan- 
der; but  these  written,  printed  articles,  which  every- 
body could  read,  came  as  a  shock  to  her;  and,  with 
eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  she  read  the  thing 
over  and  over  again.  She  was  filled  with  helpless 
despair  at  the  thought  that  such  things  were  being 
published  about  her  and  hers,  that  next  week  more 
things  would  be  printed  about  her  in  that  libellous 
paper.  She  was  at  her  wits'  end  what  to  do,  when, 
vaguely  rolling  her  terrified  eyes,  she  caught  sight, 
among  the  bills  and  circulars,  of  another  paper, 
which  said: 

11  NOTICE  !  !  ! 

"  Why  not  become  a  subscriber  to  the 

"DWARSKIJKER? 

"  Terms  of  subscription : 

"  50  guilders  quarterly,  post-free." 

The  notice  was  printed  in  the  cynical  capitals  of 
blackmail;  and  she  at  once  understood;  she  under- 


382  SMALL    SOULS 

stood  what  that  subscription  of  two  hundred  guilders 
a  year  to  a  scurrilous  rag  meant !  But  she  also  un- 
derstood that,  even  if  she  sent  the  fifty  guilders  or 
the  two  hundred  guilders  that  moment,  it  would  be 
no  safeguard  against  further  defamation  or  extor- 
tion; and  she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  ... 

She  at  first  thought  of  concealing  the  paper  from 
Van  der  Welcke;  but  she  was  so  upset  all  day  that, 
after  dinner,  when  Addie  had  gone  upstairs,  she 
showed  it  to  her  husband.  He  grew  furious  at 
once,  giving  way  to  his  naturally  irritable  temper, 
which  he  usually  kept  under  control  so  as  not  to  have 
too  violent  scenes  with  his  wife.  He  swore, 
clenched  his  fists,  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in 
impotent  rage,  longing  to  break  something  or  to  go 
out  and  revile  the  Hague,  its  streets  and  its  people. 
To  him  also  the  printed  libel — especially  because  it 
was  printed,  for  every  one  to  read — was  a  terrible 
disgrace,  which  he  felt  that  he  would  have  done 
anything  to  avoid.  It  also  occurred  to  him  to  go 
to  the  office  of  the  Dwarskijker  and  horsewhip  the 
editor.  And,  without  really  knowing  why  or  how, 
he  allowed  himself  to  utter  that  unpremeditated, 
illogical  phrase,  the  phrase  of  a  naughty  child  which 
does  not  stop  to  think  when  its  temper  is  roused: 

"It's  all  your  fault!" 

"  My  fault !  "  she  echoed,  vehemently.  "  And 
why,  in  Heaven's  name?  Why  is  it  my  fault?  " 

"  It's  your  fault !  You  would  come  and  live  here, 
with  that  morbid  craving  of  yours  for  your  family. 
In  Brussels,  nobody  knew  us  and  nobody  talked 


SMALL    SOULS  383 

about  us;  and  our  life  if  not  happy,  was  at  least 
quiet.  Here  there's  always  something,  always 
something!  It's  no  life  at  all,  our  life  herel  " 

"And  you,  weren't  you  longing  to  come  back? 
Was  I  the  only  one  who  longed?  "  she  cried,  hurt  by 
his  unreasonableness. 

But  he  did  not  hear  her;  and  all  his  pent-up  bit- 
terness burst  forth: 

"  I  walk  about  the  streets  here  every  day,  feeling 
as  if  every  one  were  looking  at  me  and  pointing  at 
me !  When  I  go  to  the  Witte  or  the  Plaats,  among 
all  the  men  I  used  to  know,  I  feel  out  of  place,  I 
feel  like  an  interloper  whom  they  don't  want  to 
own.  It's  your  fault,  it's  your  fault  I  " 

"Indeed!" 

'  Why  were  you  absolutely  bent  on  coming  back 
to  Holland?" 

"And  you?" 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you,  you !  Didn't  you  sometimes  long  for 
your  parents,  for  Holland!  Didn't  you  yourself 
say  that  it  would  be  good  for  our  boy?  " 

"  For  our  boy !  "  he  shouted,  refusing  to  listen,  in 
his  impotent,  seething  rage.  "  For  our  boy!  " 

And  he  laughed  more  bitterly,  more  scornfully 
than  she  had  ever  heard  him  before: 

"  For  our  boy  I  A  lot  I  can  do  for  him  here ! 
However  hard  he  may  work,  whatever  tact  he  may 
show,  even  though  he  enters  the  career  which  I  had 
to  abandon,  he  will  always,  always  be  reminded  of 
the  scandal  of  his  parents!  For  our  boy!  Let  him 


384  SMALL    SOULS 

become  a  farmer,  if  he  must  be  a  Dutchman  in  Hol- 
land, hidden  somewhere  from  all  our  family,  our 
friends  and  our  acquaintances!  And  it's  all,  all 
your  fault!  " 

"  You  are  unreasonable!  "  she  cried,  wincing  un- 
der his  insults.  "  If  we  have  anything  to  reproach 
ourselves  with,  then  it  falls  upon  both  of  us;  and 
you  have  not  the  right  to  let  me,  me,  a  woman,  bear 
the  burden  of  our  misery  alone !  " 

'  That  misery  would  at  least  not  have  been  dis- 
cussed, mocked  at,  criticized,  ridiculed,  traduced," 
he  shouted,  raging  and  stamping,  "  if  you  had  not 
insisted  on  coming  back  to  Holland !  " 

"  Was  I  the  only  one  to  wish  it?  " 

*  Very  well,"  he  admitted,  losing  all  his  self-con- 
trol, "  I  did  too.  But  we  were  both  fools,  to  return 
to  this  rotten  country  and  these  rotten  people !  " 

"  I  don't  need  them.  I  only  longed  for  my  fam- 
ily." 

"  For  your  family !  The  Saetzemas,  with  whom 
we  have  quarrelled  already,  to  whom  we  never  speak 
except  at  Mamma's;  the  Van  Naghels,  who  are  no 
use  to  us :  is  that  how  you  want  to  live,  for  your  boy, 
in  Holland,  here,  buried  away  in  your  Kerkhoflaan, 
in  your  house,  in  your  rooms,  with  no  one  but  Vrees- 
wijck,  who  sometimes  does  us  the  honour  to  come 
and  dine  with  us?  Whom  do  we  know?  Who 
comes  to  see  us?  Who  cares  a  jot  about  us?  " 

"  I  only  wanted  the  affection  of  my  family  I  " 

"  And  for  the  sake  of  that  affection,  do  you  want 
to  go  on  living  here  like  this,  buried  away,  when  you 


SMALL   SOULS  385 

want  your  boy  to  pursue  his  career  later  on?  Ha, 
ha,  he'll  go  far,  like  that!  Do  you  imagine  that 
he'll  succeed  simply  through  examinations?  No, 
influence  is  what  he  wants:  that's  more  important 
than  any  number  of  examinations.  And  you  want 
him  to  enter  the  service  under  those  conditions, 
while  his  father  and  mother  sit  cursing  their  luck 
here,  in  the  Kerkhoflaan?  Well  then,  let  him  be- 
come a  farmer:  the  future  is  with  the  proletariat  in 
any  case.  Very  well,  it's  the  fault  of  both  of  us,  the 
silly,  stupid  fault  of  both  of  us.  But,  if  it's  my) 
fault,  it's  your  fault  too.  Have  you  ever  done  any- 
thing to  get  on?  I,  at  least  in  my  own  mind,  reck- 
oned on  the  Van  Naghels;  I  thought  to  myself:  My 
brother-in-law  has  no  end  of  connections,  we  shall 
go  to  his  house;  I  don't  care  about  it  for  my  own 
sake,  but  it  will  be  a  good  thing,  later,  for  the 
boy.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh?  And  have  you  no  connections?  Have 
your  parents  no  relations?  All  your  old  friends  at 
the  Plaats:  which  of  them  comes  to  see  us?  Which 
of  them,  except  Vreeswijck,  has  had  the  ordinary 
civility  to  call  on  your  wife?  Not  one  of  them,  not 
one !  "  she  almost  screamed.  "  Not  that  I  want 
them  here,  any  more  than  you  want  to  dine  at  Van 
Naghel's;  but,  if  you  attach  so  much  importance  to 
connections,  for  •  the  sake  of  our  son,  you  could 
have  done  something  else  than  cycle  all  over  the 
Hague  and  Scheveningen,  you  could  have  pointed  out 
to  your  friends  that,  as  they  condescend  to  know  you 
in  the  sacred  mysteries  of  that  Plaats  of  yours,  the 


386  SMALL   SOULS 

least  they  could  do  would  be  to  look  you  up  at  home 
and  not  to  go  on  ignoring  your  wife,  as  though  she 
were  still  your  mistress  .  .  . !  " 

"  It'll  always,  always  be  like  that!  "  he  cried,  rag- 
ing impotently,  almost  to  the  point  of  tears.  "  We 
can  never  alter  it,  if  we  live  to  be  sixty,  if  we  live 
to  be  eighty!  " 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  as  though  with  a  sudden 
intuition  to  join  issue  with  her  husband's  unreason- 
ableness. "  You  wish  it  for  your  son's  sake  I  I'll 
do  it!  I  shall  speak  to  Bertha  and  I  shall  be  the 
-first  to  speak.  I  shall  tell  her  what  I  want  of  her, 
as  a  sister.  But  I  shall  also  expect  you  to  have 
your  son's  interests  at  heart  among  your  own  ac- 
quaintances; and  I  shall  expect  to  be  presented  in 
the  winter.  I  never  thought  of  it  myself;  but  peo- 
ple have  done  nothing  but  talk  about  it  from  the 
moment  that  we  came  here;  and  now  I  mean  to  do 
it.  What  is  the  objection?  That  we  shall  rub 
shoulders  with  De  Staffelaer's  family!  I  don't  care 
whom  I  rub  shoulders  with.  My  intention  was  sim- 
ply to  live  here,  amid  the  affection  of  my  family; 
but,  if  that  is  to  be  denied  me,  if  such  wretched  libels 
as  this  are  to  be  published,  if  you  reproach  me  with 
not  thinking  of  my  son's  future,  then  I  shall  alter 
my  line  of  conduct  and  talk  to  Bertha.  You,  on 
your  side,  talk  to  your  friends  at  the  Plaats  and,  if 
you  have  any  pride  about  you,  refuse  to  have  any- 
thing more  to  do  with  them  unless  they  accept  your 
wife  and  yourself  as  belonging  to  their  set.  I  will 
stand  it  no  longer !  I  wished  for  nothing  more  than 


SMALL   SOULS  387 

peace  and  affection,  than  to  grow  old  here  beside 
my  mother  and  my  brothers  and  sisters;  but,  if  there 
must  be  a  scandal,  notwithstanding  those  simple 
wishes,  well  then  a  scandal  there  shall  be,  so  that 
people  can  say,  with  truth,  '  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke 
is  pushing  herself  into  the  circles  to  which  she  always 
used  to  belong.'  ' 

"  I  can't  do  it!  "  he  said,  weakly.  "  I  can't  pos- 
sibly do  what  you  want.  After  putting  up  with  the 
tolerance  and  condescension  of  my  former  friends, 
I  can't  go  to  them  now  and  explain  that  my  wife  and 
I  want  to  call  on  them  and  their  wives  and  expect 
them  to  call  on  us  in  return." 

"Then  I'll  do  without  you!"  she  said.  "I'm 
not  on  speaking  terms  with  Adolphine,  but  I  don't 
need  that  jumble-set  of  hers.  I  believe  that  Bertha 
still  has  some  sisterly  affection  left  for  me;  and  I 
shall  talk  to  her  and  she  will  have  to  help  me.  But 
you  will  never  be  able  to  reproach  me  again  with 
not  thinking  of  my  child's  future.  And,  if  you're 
too  weak  to  show  your  friends  what  you  expect  of 
them,  then  I,  later,  when  our  son  meets  with  diffi- 
culties in  his  career,  shall  have  the  right  to  reproach 
you  as  you  are  reproaching  me  now.  .  .  ." 

"Reproach!  I'm  not  thinking  of  reproaches!" 
he  broke  in,  angrily,  illogically,  unreasonably.  "  I'm 
only  thinking  of  that  rotten  paper,  that  rotten  pa- 
per. .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  it  in  despairing  irritation: 

"  I'll  go  to  the  fellow,  I'll  slash  him  across  the 
face,  I'll  slash  him  across  the  face !  " 


388  SMALL    SOULS 

She  laughed,  scornfully: 

"  Shall  you  do  that  for  the  sake  of  your  son's  fu- 
ture?" 

He  controlled  himself,  clenched  his  fists,  rushed 
from  the  room  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  flung  himself 
in  his  chair  upstairs,  smoked  cigarette  upon  ciga- 
rette, walked  up  and  down  in  impotent  rage.  .  .  . 

That  evening,  Gerrit  and  Paul  came  round.  They 
also  knew  about  the  Dwarskijker:  they  said  that  a 
copy  had  been  dropped  into  Van  Naghel's  letter- 
box too.  And  Gerrit,  getting  furious,  because  Van 
der  Welcke  was  still  furious,  said: 

"  If  you  want  to  break  the  fellow's  jaw,  Van  der 
Welcke,  I'm  your  man !  " 

Paul  wearily  closed  his  eyes  and  expressed  dis- 
approval with  every  bored  feature  of  his  face : 

"  My  dear  Gerrit,  don't  come  playing  the  bold 
swashbuckler,  thinking  you  can  chop  the  world  to 
pieces  with  your  silly  old  sword.  And  .you,  Van  der 
Welcke,  for  Heaven's  sake,  keep  calm,  if  you  don't 
want  to  make  things  worse  than  they  are !  " 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do?  "  asked  Constance,  im- 
patiently. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  said  Paul,  philosophically. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IT  was  the  middle  of  November;  and  Constance 
remembered  that  Bertha's  second  at-home  day  was 
on  the  third  Tuesday  of  the  month.  The  next  num- 
ber of  the  Dwarskijker  was  due  in  a  day  or  two; 
and  this,  although  she  did  not  mention  it  again,  left 
her  practically  no  peace  throughout  that  week,  in 
her  terror  of  printed  words  of  spite  and  malevolence. 
And,  as  if  to  redeem  her  promise  to  Van  der  Welcke, 
she  said  that  afternoon,  at  lunch,  that  she  was  going 
to  Bertha's,  as  it  was  Bertha's  day.  He  at  once 
grasped  her  intention  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  sur- 
prised that  she  had  not  given  up  her  plan  of  pushing 
herself.  He  had  rather  imagined  that  the  idea  came 
to  her  in  the  nervous  excitement  produced  by  their 
conversation,  but  that  she  would  not  take  it  seriously 
after  the  excitement  was  past.  He  remembered  that 
the  family  always  looked  upon  those  receptions  at  the 
Van  Naghels'  as  something  very  official:  Mamma 
van  Lowe  went  to  them  once  in  a  way;  and  Uncle 
and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer,  although  quite  out  of  their  ele- 
ment, used  to  put  in  an  appearance  once  every  win- 
ter, because  they  had  done  so  at  first,  by  mistake, 
and  now  did  not  exactly  know  how  to  stay  away; 
but  none  of  the  other  relations  ever  went.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  family,  those  reception-days  always  re- 
tained a  certain  official  importance  and  aristocratic 
exclusiveness ;  and  Cateau,  for  instance,  would  say, 

389 


390  SMALL   SOULS 

very  solemnly,  to  Karel  that  this  was  Ber-tha's  day, 
with  a  certain  respect  for  that  day  on  which  the  up- 
per two  and  three  of  the  Hague  sometimes  put  in  an 
appearance,  while  Gerrit  always  joked  about  the  in- 
accessible grandeur  of  those  reception-days  of  her 
excellency  his  sister,  as  he  called  her  in  chaff.  .  .  . 

Van  der  Welcke  had  it  on  his  lips  to  ask  Constance 
if  Bertha  knew  that  she  was  coming,  or  if  Con- 
stance had  at  least  mentioned  her  intention  to 
Mamma  van  Lowe.  But  he  did  not  feel  in  the  mood 
to  provoke  a  discussion;  and  in  any  case  Constance 
would  do  as  she  chose.  It  was  raining;  he  heard 
her  tell  the  maid  to  order  a  carriage;  and,  as  he 
was  staying  at  home,  to  bore  himself  in  Addie's  ab- 
sence in  his  little  smoking-room,  smoking  cigarette 
on  cigarette,  he  saw  his  wife  step  into  the  brougham 
at  four  o'clock  and  was  struck  with  the  elegance  of 
her  dress.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  in  gloomy 
disapproval;  he  was  in  a  bad  temper  these  days;  he 
too  was  permanently  upset  by  that  rotten  libel,  that 
confounded  rag,  against  which  he  had  been  help- 
less. He  threw  himself  on  his  sofa  again  and 
smoked  and  smoked,  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  dress  and  go  to  the  Plaats,  was  almost  uncon- 
sciously avoiding  his  friends. 

Constance  felt  very  calm,  but  had  retained  a  cer- 
tain bitterness  all  this  time.  The  thought  just  oc- 
curred to  her  how  Bertha  would  take  her  visit;  but, 
even  though  the  family  treated  the  question  differ- 
ently, she  meant  to  show  Bertha  that  she  considered 
it  an  obvious  thing  to  call  on  her  at-home  day. 


SMALL   SOULS  391 

When  her  brougham  stopped,  she  saw  a  couple  of 
carriages  waiting;  the  door  was  opened  by  the  par- 
lour-maid, even  before  she  had  rung;  the  butler, 
recognizing  her,  bowed,  preceded  her  up  the  stairs, 
opened  the  door  wide  and  announced  her: 

"  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke.  .  .  ." 

Constance  entered  the  drawing-room,  where  a  few 
people,  mostly  ladies,  were  moving  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness. But  it  was  not  so  dark  that  she  did  not  at 
once  notice  that  Marianne  looked  at  her  in  surprise, 
with  such  spontaneous,  unconcealed  surprise  that  it 
gave  her  something  of  a  shock.  She  shook  hands 
with  Marianne  with  an  easy  smile  and  went  up  to 
Bertha;  and  Bertha  also,  as  she  very  plainly  noticed, 
was  surprised  and  blinked  her  eyes  as  she  rose.  And 
Bertha,  woman  of  the  world  though  she  was  and 
accustomed  to  treat  all  manner  of  difficult  drawing- 
room  situations,  seemed  uncomfortable  as  she  wel- 
comed her  sister: 

"  Constance." 

She  said  it  almost  inaudibly  and  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment whether  to  introduce  her  to  a  lady  sitting  be- 
side her.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment;  and  then 
Bertha  said,  with  her  usual  voice  of  the  rather  tired 
hostess,  who  performed  her  social  duties  because 
she  had  to : 

"  Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh;  my  sister,  Mrs.  van  der 
Welcke." 

Constance  bowed,  calmly  and  indifferently,  said  a 
word  or  two.  Bertha  mentioned  a  couple  of  more 
names;  and  Constance  made  a  casual  remark  here 


392  SMALL   SOULS 

and  there,  coolly  and  calmly.  But  she  was  really 
dismayed,  for  the  first  lady  to  whom  Bertha  had  in- 
troduced her  was  mistress  of  the  robes  to  the  Queen 
and  a  niece  of  De  Staffelaer's.  She  had  already 
been  reflecting  that  it  would  be  her  duty  to  write  to 
Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh,  to  send  her  word  officially  of 
her  wish  to  be  presented;  and  she  had  also  reflected 
that  the  mistress  of  the  robes  was  De  Staffelaer's 
niece.  But  the  fact  that  the  first  lady  to  whom  Ber- 
tha introduced  her  should  be  a  blood-relation  of 
the  husband  from  whom  she  was  divorced  made  her 
shiver  superstitiously.  She  did  not  show  this,  how- 
ever, and,  without  taking  any  great  trouble  to  make 
herself  amiable  or  sociable,  she  remained  sitting 
where  she  was,  so  that  Marianne  now  came  up  to  her : 

"  How  nice  of  you,  Auntie,  to  look  in  on  Mamma's 
day." 

"  She  doesn't  mean  a  word  of  it,"  thought  Con- 
stance. 

But  it  was  awkwardness  and  astonishment,  rather 
than  insincerity,  that  made  Marianne  speak  as  she 
did.  She  could  never  have  imagined  that  Aunt 
Constance  should  call  on  those  at-home  days,  any 
more  than  the  other  aunts  and  uncles  did,  because 
their  respective  acquaintances  were  so  entirely  dif- 
ferent. 

"  We  were  so  busy  in  the  spring,  getting  settled," 
said  Constance,  very  calmly.  "  You  remember,  the 
furniture  had  to  come  from  Brussels.  But  this  au- 
tumn I  thought  I  would  pay  my  respects  to  Mamma. 
After  all,  I  can't  go  on  ignoring  Mamma  and  only 


SMALL    SOULS  393 

seeing  her  when  she  is  in  her  bedroom  with  a  head- 
ache!" 

Marianne's  surprise  increased.  Aunt  Constance 
said  this  so  calmly,  so  very  calmly,  as  though  it  were 
quite  a  matter  of  course  that  she  should  call  on  an 
at-home  day.  And  Marianne  could  not  refrain  from 
saying : 

"  Yes,  it's  very  nice  of  you  to  come.  For,  you 
see,  the  aunts  never  come:  Aunt  Adeline  never  and 
Aunt  Cateau  never  and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  only  very 
seldom." 

"Oh,  really?"  asked  Constance,  innocently. 
"  Don't  they  ever  come?  " 

"Auntie  Ruyvenaer  just  once  in  a  way;  but  the 
other  aunts  never." 

"Oh?  Don't  they?"  asked  Constance,  putting 
on  an  air  of  great  surprise  and  rather  playing  with 
Marianne's  bewilderment. 

"Didn't  you  know?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  know.  But  I  don't  call  that  very 
civil  of  the  aunts.  It's  different  with  the  uncles: 
men  are  not  expected  to  pay  visits.  But  I'm  sur- 
prised at  the  two  aunts,  Marianne." 

Marianne  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  was  not 
accustomed  to  weigh  her  words  or  to  think  that  an- 
other might  say  things  which  she  did  not  really  mean. 
Nervously  constituted  as  she  was,  she  had  something 
candid  about  her,  something  honest  and  frank. 

"  Well,  I  shall  tell  them,"  said  Constance,  with  a 
laugh,  "  that  they  owe  the  same  politeness  to  a  sister 
as  to  any  one  else." 


394  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Oh,  Auntie,  I  don't  think  Aunt  Adeline  or  Aunt 
Cateau  or  Aunt  Adolphine  would  care  to  come!" 
said  Marianne,  not  doubting  Constance'  good  faith 
for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  wouldn't  they?"  said  Constance,  coolly. 
"  Yes,  I  suppose  Aunt  Adeline  is  always  so  busy  with 
the  children.  And  Aunt  Cateau  ...  ." 

She  did  not  complete  her  sentence,  for  two  men, 
knowing  that  she  was  Mrs.  van  Naghel's  sister,  were 
asking  to  be  introduced  to  her. 

She  did  not  want  to  stay  long;  and,  in  a  minute  or 
two,  she  rose  and  moved  towards  Bertha  to  say  good- 
bye. Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh,  however,  was  taking 
leave  at  the  same  instant;  and  Constance  waited  for 
a  couple  of  seconds.  And,  in  those  two  seconds,  she 
noticed,  very  plainly,  that  Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh  de- 
liberately turned  her  back  on  her,  as  if  to  avoid  her, 
saying  good-bye  to  Bertha  and  giving  Constance  no 
opportunity  of  bowing.  It  was  no  more  than  a 
hardly  perceptible  movement  and,  in  any  other  case, 
might  have  been  a  natural  oversight ;  but,  at  this  mo- 
ment, Constance  felt  that  it  was  done  deliberately, 
with  the  intention  of  wounding.  She  gave  an  ironical 
smile,  with  a  laugh  in  her  eyes  and  tightened  lips, 
and  thought: 

"  She  is  De  Staffelaer's  niece.  I  shall  meet  plenty 
more  of  his  nephews  and  nieces.  .  .  ." 

She  was  now  able  to  take  leave  of  Bertha. 

"  Good-bye,  Bertha." 

"  Good-bye,  Constance,  so  nice  of  you  .  .  ." 

Constance,  for  a  moment,  looked  Bertha  straight 


SMALL    SOULS  395 

in  the  eyes.  She  said  nothing,  she  did  nothing  but 
that:  merely  looked  into  Bertha's  eyes  while  still 
holding  her  hand.  And,  for  a  moment,  they  looked 
into  each  other's  souls. 

There  were  no  more  callers;  the  rest  of  the  room 
'was  talking  busily;  and  Bertha  just  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  say  something  that  forced  its  way  to  her 
lips: 

"  Constance,  that  article  .  .  ." 

"Yes?  .  .  ." 

"  Van  Naghel  is  very  much  upset  by  it." 

Constance  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Have  you  heard  about  it?  " 

"  Yes,  I  found  a  copy  of  it  in  my  letter-box.  It's 
one  of  those  libels  .  .  ." 

"  It's  terrible." 

"  It's  beneath  us  to  let  ourselves  be  worried  by  a 
thing  like  that." 

"  Yes,  but  .  .  .  it's  most  unpleasant  ...  for  Van 
Naghel.  .  .  ." 

"  It's  not  particularly  pleasant  for  me  either, 
but  .  .  ." 

And  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  again,  refusing 
to  admit  how  she  had  suffered  under  it,  trembling  in 
all  her  nerves  at  those  printed  words  of  scandal. 
But  she  understood  that  Bertha  also  had  been  suffer- 
ing all  these  days  under  that  shower  of  mud,  which 
clung  to  you,  however  lofty  your  attitude  of  contemp- 
tuous indifference  might  be.  And  Bertha  found 
another  moment  in  which  to  say: 

"  Constance  .      ." 


396  SMALL    SOULS 

"Yes?  .  .  ." 

"  Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh  ...  is  a  niece  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  I  am  sorry  .  .  .  that  you  should  just  have  hap- 
pened to  meet  her." 

Constance  once  more  shrugged  her  shoulders : 

"Why?" 

And  she  looked  Bertha  full  in  the  face  : 

"  Why?  "  she  repeated.  "  There  are  things,  Ber- 
tha, which  I  intend  to  treat  as  the  past.  I  don't 
know  if  others  will  always  look  upon  them  as  the 
present.  If  you  wish  to  be  a  sister  for  me,  in  deed 
as  well  as  in  name,  help  me.  Do  you  understand 
what  I  mean?  I  am  determined  to  treat  what  hap- 
pened years  ago  as  the  past.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  it,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  our  friends,  I  believe, 
take  pleasure  in  still  looking  upon  the  past  as  the 
present.  It's  a  great  compliment  to  me,  no  doubt, 
but,  alas,  I  can't  accept  it:  I  am  fully  fifteen  years 
older  now;  and  I  am  determined  to  make  those  fif- 
teen years  count.  Do  you  understand  me?  " 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,  Constance." 

"  And  you  don't  approve.  You  also  want  me 
never  to  grow  old  and  never  to  bring  my  fifteen  years 
into  account." 

"  Ssh,  Constance !  There's  some  one  coming  in 
at  the  door  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  be  afraid:  I've  finished.  Good-bye,  Ber- 
tha; and  help  me,  if  you  can.  .  .  ." 

She  pressed  her  hand.     Bertha  was  on  thorns. 


SMALL    SOULS  397 

As  she  went  out,  Constance  heard  the  butler  an- 
nouncing : 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  van  den  Heuvel  Steyn." 

She  gave  a  start;  she  knew  the  name:  friends  of 
De  Staffelaer's;  Van  den  Heuvel  Steyn  had  a  post 
at  Court.  Suddenly,  she  saw  herself,  years  ago,  as 
a  young  girl,  calling  on  those  people  with  De  Staffe- 
laer.  She  had  not  seen  them  for  years,  had  not 
heard  of  them  for  years. 

She  passed  them  and  saw  that  they  had  become 
old,  very  old,  those  friends  of  De  Staffelaer's,  two 
very  old  people.  They  looked  at  her  too ;  and  there 
was  fury  in  their  eyes,  as  though  they  were  both  sur- 
prised— that  old  lady  and  that  old  gentleman— to 
find  Mrs.  van  der  Welcke  in  any  drawing-room  which 
they  entered,  even  though  she  were  a  hundred  times 
the  sister  of  the  colonial  secretary's  wife.  Their 
eyes  crossed  like  swords ;  and  Constance  passed  them 
very  haughtily,  looking  over  their  heads  and  pretend- 
ing not  to  recognize  them.  She  shivered  in  the  hall. 
It  was  pouring  with  rain.  The  butler  called  her  car- 
riage. 

"  It  will  be  difficult,"  she  thought,  tired  out  with 
this  one  quarter-of-an-hour's  visit.  "  But  it  is  for 
my  son.  I  must  go  through  with  it.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

A  FEW  mornings  later,  when  Constance  woke,  she 
remembered  that  it  was  Saturday;  and,  with  the 
apprehension  which  had  kept  her  nerves  on  the  rack 
all  the  week  long,  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  rose : 
"  This  is  the  day  .  .  .  this  is  the  day.  .  .  ." 
She  went  to  the  letter-box  again  and  again,  almost 
hoping  to  find  the  last  issue  of  the  scurrilous  paper 
there.  She  was  afraid  also  lest  Addie,  before  going 
to  school  or  on  coming  home,  should  see  it  in  the 
box  and  look  at  it,  to  see  what  it  was.  She  knew  that 
Van  der  Welcke  was  thinking  of  it  too  and  that  this 
was  why  he  did  not  go  out  and  also  kept  coming 
down  the  stairs,  as  though  accidentally,  and  passing 
through  the  hall,  with  a  glance  at  the  glass  pane  of 
the  letter-box.  She  went  and  sat  in  the  drawing- 
room,  looking  out  for  the  postman  or  for  an  errand- 
boy  who  might  strike  her  as  suspicious.  .  .  .  The 
morning  passed,  Addie  came  home  and  her  nervous 
apprehension  never  left  her.  The  afternoon  passed 
and  she  remained  indoors,  wandering  through  the 
hall  and  always,  always  gazing  at  that  letter-box. 
Nothing  appeared  through  the  little  glass  pane. 
And  the  whole  day  was  one  long  apprehension,  one 
incessant  oppression. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  Constance  again  looked 
out  of  the  window,  but  she  had  now  made  up  her 
mind  that  nothing  would  come  and  that  there  was 


SMALL    SOULS  399 

nothing  in  the  Dwarskijker.  She  stayed  at  home 
that  day  too,  as  it  was  raining  hard,  and  she  saw  no- 
body. At  half-past  eight  in  the  evening,  she  went 
to  Mamma  van  Lowe's  in  a  cab,  with  Van  der  Welcke 
and  Addie.  And  Constance,  the  moment  she  en- 
tered, saw  that  there  was  a  certain  excitement  among 
the  members  of  the  family,  all  of  whom  were  pres- 
ent. Even  Mamma  seemed  uneasy  about  some- 
thing; and  she  at  once  said  to  Constance : 

"  You  were  at  Bertha's  on  Tuesday,  child.  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  first,  Connie?  " 

"  Is  a  visit  to  Bertha  such  a  very  important  mat- 
ter, Mamma?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  old  woman,  deprecatingly, 
"  not  that  .  .  ." 

But  the  old  aunts  arrived: 

"  How  are  you,  Marie  ?  " 

"  How  are  you,  Dorine  and  Christine  ?  So  nice 
of  you  to  come." 

"  What  d'you  say?  "  asked  Auntie  Rine. 

"  Marie  says  .  .  .  it's  so  nice  of  you  to 
co-o-ome !  "  screamed  Auntie  Tine. 

"Oh,  ah!  Did  she  say  so?  Yes,  yes.  .  .  . 
And  who's  that?  .  .  ." 

"  That's  Constance,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"Who?" 

"That's  Marie's  daughter!"  screamed  Auntie 
Tine.  "  Marie's  daugh-ter !  " 

"Whose  daughter?" 

"Marie's?" 


400  SMALL   SOULS 

"Bertha?"    ' 

"  No,  not  Bertha,  Gertrude :  Ger-tru-ude !  "  yelled 
Auntie  Tine.  • 

"  Oh,  Gertrude?  "  said  Auntie  Rine,  nodding  he'r 
head. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Mrs.  van  Lowe,  upset  by  the 
thought  of  the  little  daughter  who  had  died  at  Buiten- 
zorg. 

"  Never  mind,  Mamma,"  said  Constance. 
'  They'll  never  remember  who  I  am." 

"  They're  so  obstinate !  " 

"  But  they're  so  old." 

"  It  makes  me  so  sad  to  hear  them  always  taking 
you  for  Gertrude.  Poor  Gertrude !  " 

"  Come,  Mamma,  you  mustn't  mind." 

"  No,  child.  But,  oh,  why  did  you  go  to  Ber- 
tha's on  Tuesday?  " 

"  What  harm  did  I  do,  Mamma?  " 

"No  harm,  child.  But  oh  dear!  .  .  .  Good- 
evening,  Herman;  good-evening,  Lotje." 

It  was  Uncle  and  Aunt  Ruyvenaer,  with  their  girls 
following  behind.  And  Constance  saw  a  look  of 
pity  in  their  eyes. 

"  I  say,  Constance  .  .  ."  whispered  Aunt  Lot 

"Yes,  Auntie?" 

"  Does  Mamma  know  about  that  hor-r-rid  arti- 
cle? " 

Constance  turned  pale : 

"  I  don't  think  so,  Auntie." 

"  But  your  sister  Dorine  must  know  .  .  ." 


SMALL   SOULS  401 

Aunt  Ruyvenaer  beckoned  to  Dorine,  who  was 
very  fidgety : 

"  I  say,  Dorine,  does  Mamma  know  about  that 
hor-r-rid  article  ?  " 

"  No,  Auntie,"  said  Dorine,  forgetting  to  say 
good-evening  to  Constance.  "  I  kept  coming  in  and 
looking  at  the  letter-box  ..." 

"To-day?"  asked  Constance. 

"  Yes." 

;<  What  do  you  mean,  to-day?  A  week  ago,  you 
mean." 

"  No,  Mamma  didn't  see  that  article  last  week, 
but  I  was  afraid  about  to-day." 

"To-day?" 

"  Yes,  to-day's  article." 

Constance  caught  Dorine  by  the  arm : 

"  Is  there  something  in  it,  to-day?  " 
'  Yes,"  Dorine  whispered,  coldly.     "  Didn't  you 
know?" 

"  Don't  you  know,  Constance?  "  asked  Auntie  Lot. 

"  No,  I  haven't  had  it  .  .  ." 

"  So  you  haven't  read  it,  Constance?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  it's  just  as  well,  child,"  said  Auntie,  as 
though  relieved.  "  Better  not  read  it,  eh?  Hor-r- 
rid  article.  Scandalous,  child,  about  you.  .  .  .  Eh, 
soedah  l  all  those  people.  .  .  .  And  it's  so  long 
ago,  you  and  your  husband;  and  he  is  your  husband 
now!  .  .  .  Eh,  what  I  say  is,  leave  her  alone. 

1  Enough  of,  have  done  with. 


402  SMALL    SOULS 

Forgive  and  forget,  socdah!  But  I  tell  you,  people 
always  love  to  korek  about  tempo  doeloe.2  It  makes 
me  sick  when  I  think  what  people  are !  " 

"  Dorine,  have  you  that  article?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  carry  it  about  with  me?  "  said 
Dorine,  irritably. 

"  Why  are  you  angry  with  me,  Dorine?  " 

"  I'm  not  angry ;  but,  when  you  give  occasion  .  .  ." 

"I?  .  .  .  Give  occasion?  .  .  .  Fifteen  years 
ago?  .  .  ." 

"  No,  on  Tuesday  last.  What  an  idea  of  yours, 
to  go  to  Bertha's !  " 

"  I  intend  to  do  more  than  that,  Dorine.  And  I 
can't  help  it  if  I  don't  share  your  awe  for  Bertha's 
days.  .  .  ." 

"  At  which  you  may  meet  all  sorts  of  people  .  .  ." 

"  Dorine,  one  has  so  many  unpleasant  meetings 
in  this  world,"  said  Constance,  haughtily.  "  You, 
you  don't  know  the  world." 

"  Thank  goodness  for  that !  " 

"  Then  don't  condemn  me.  You  don't  know  why 
I  am  acting  as  I  am." 

"  If  you  only  kept  to  yourself  .  .  ." 

"  I  wanted  to  keep  to  myself." 

"  You  give  people  occasion  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  now :  I  give  them  occasion  now  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  children,"  said  Auntie,  "  don't  quarrel.  .  .  . 
There's  soesah  3  enough,  with  that  hor-r-rid  article !  " 

Gerrit  arrived: 

u  I  thought  I'd  just  look  hi,  Mamma  .  .  ." 

2  To  rake  up  old  times.  3  Fuss,  unpleasantness. 


SMALL   SOULS  403 

"How's  Adeline?" 

"  She's  well.  The  doctor  called  this  afternoon. 
She's  very  well  indeed.  Oh,  she  doesn't  upset  her- 
self for  a  small  affair  like  that !  " 

The  big,  fair  man  laughed  nervously,  boisterously 
filling  the  whole  room  with  his  loose-limbed  strength. 
Then  he  went  up  to  Constance : 

"  Connie,"  he  whispered,  "  I'm  so  furious,  so  fu- 
rious 1  " 

"  I  haven't  read  it." 

"Haven't  you?     Haven't  you?     Then  don't!" 

"  But  what  do  they  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     Don't  read  it." 

But  she  hardly  listened  to  Gerrit,  for  she  now  saw 
Van  der  Welcke  and  Paul  standing  in  a  corner,  in 
the  back-drawing-room.  She  moved  in  their  direc- 
tion. She  saw  that  Van  der  Welcke,  with  his  back 
turned  to  the  other  room,  was  reading  something, 
screened  by  a  curtain,  while  Paul  was  warning  him, 
anxiously : 

"  Come,  give  it  me,  quick  .  .  .  Van  der 
Welcke  .  .  ." 

Constance  was  behind  them : 

"  Paul,  tell  me,  that  article  .  .  ." 

"  The  scoundrels,  the  scoundrels ! "  Van  der 
Welcke  was  hissing. 

"Henri,  have  you  it?     Give  it  to  me." 

"  No,  Constance !  "  Paul  implored  her.  "  Don't 
read  it,  don't  read  it." 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Henri !  " 

"  I  want  to  read  it  myself  first  1  " 


4o4  SMALL    SOULS 

And  he  cursed  as  he  read: 

"The  damned  scoundrels!  And  it's  not  true;  it 
didn't  happen  like  that.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  is  it  they  say?  "  Constance  demanded, 
furiously. 

Paul  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  into  the  little 
boudoir,  where  their  father's  portrait  hung: 

"  Be  quiet,  Constance.  Please,  please  don't  read 
it!  What  good  will  it  do  you;  all  that  dirty  lan- 
guage, all  that  vulgarity?  It's  filthy,  it's  filthy!  " 

"  And  is  there  nothing  we  can  do?  " 

"  No,  no,  for  God's  sake,  no !  "  Paul  begged,  as 
though  preferring  to  hush  up  everything.  "  Every 
one  will  have  forgotten  it  in  ten  days'  time." 

"  Is  there  nothing  we  can  do?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do?  "  Paul  asked,  chang- 
ing his  tone,  harshly.  "  Surely  you  wouldn't  sue  the 
cad  for  libel?" 

"  No,  no!  "  she  said,  startled  and  terrified. 

"Well,  what  then?  Keep  quiet,  don't  read  it, 
don't  upset  yourself  about  it.  .  .  ." 

But  Van  der  Welcke  came  up  to  them.  He  was 
purple,  there  was  no  restraining  him  : 

"  I'm  going  to  the  fellow.  .  .  ." 

"  For  God's  sake,  Van  der  Welcke!  " 

Uncle  Ruyvenaer  joined  them : 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  here  ?  Oh,  yes,  that  rag  I 
It's  disgraceful,  it's  disgraceful !  " 

"  I  want  to  read  it !  "  cried  Constance. 

"No!"  they  all  three  exclaimed.  "Don't  read 
it!" 


SMALL   SOULS  405 

"Don't  let  Mamma  notice!"  Uncle  Ruyvenaer 
warned  them. 

And  he  went  away,  full  of  suppressed  excitement. 

But  they  remained  in  the  boudoir.  The  portrait 
looked  down  upon  them. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  Constance  began  sobbing;  and 
she  looked  up  at  the  portrait.  "  Papa,  Papa !  Oh, 
my  God!" 

"  Hush,  Constance !  " 

"Let  me  read  it!  " 

"  No." 

Adolphine  appeared  in  the  doorway.  She  said 
nothing,  but  realized  what  they  were  talking  about 
and  turned  away.  And  they  heard  Adolphine  say 
aloud,  in  a  hard  voice,  to  Uncle  Ruyvenaer : 

"  It's  their  own  fault!  " 

Van  der  Welcke  flared  up,  no  longer  able  to  master 
himself.  He  spun  round  to  the  door;  Paul  tried  to 
hold  him  back,  but  it  was  too  late;  and,  on  the 
threshold,  with  his  face  close  to  Adolphine's,  he 
roared: 

'  Why  is  it  my  own  fault?  " 

"Why?"  asked  Adolphine,  furiously,  remember- 
ing the  lofty  tone  which  he  had  adopted  to  her  after 
the  quarrel  of  the  two  boys.  "  Why?  You  should 
have  remained  in  Brussels!  " 

"  Adolphine  1  "  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  purple  in 
the  face,  seething,  roaring,  with  every  nerve  quiver- 
ing. "  You're  a  woman  and  an  ill-mannered 
woman;  and  so  you  can  allow  yourself  to  say  any- 
thing you  please  to  a  man.  But,  if  your  husband 


4o6  SMALL    SOULS 

shares  your  opinion  that  I  ought  to  have  remained 
in  Brussels,  he's  only  got  to  tell  me  so,  in  your  name 
or  in  his  own !  Then  I'll  send  him  my  seconds !  " 

Van  Saetzema  came  up  at  that  moment. 

"Then  I'll  send  you  my  seconds!"  Van  der 
Welcke  repeated,  blazing. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't,  my  dear  fellow !  "  cried 
Van  Saetzema,  frightened  to  death. 

And  Adolphine  began  to  clasp  her  hands  together; 
she  too  was  frightened  and  took  refuge  in  a  feeble 
exhibition  of  wounded  vanity: 

"He  says  I'm  ill-mannered!  He  says  I'm  ill- 
mannered!  The  hound!  The  cad!  I  have  to 
swallow  everything!  Every  one  says  just  what  he 
likes  to  me!  " 

She  was  now  really  crying  into  her  handkerchief. 
Everything  in  the  two  drawing-rooms  seemed  in  one 
great  ferment  of  excitement.  On  all  sides,  there 
were  quick,  hushed  conversations,  whispered  words, 
nervous  glances  among  the  brothers  and  sisters  and 
their  juniors,  the  nephews  and  nieces;  not  a  single 
quiet  group  had  been  formed;  the  card-tables  re- 
mained untouched;  and  there  was  no  one  at  the  table 
in  the  conservatory  where  the  children's  round  games 
were  played. 

"  Herman !  "  Mamma  called  out,  almost  querul- 
ously. "  Aren't  you  going  to  start  a  rubber?  " 

1  Yes,  do  come  along!  "  said  Auntie  Lot  to  Ruy- 
venaer,  "  A]o*  shall  we  have  a  game  ?  Come  on, 
who's  going  to  play?  .  .  .  You,  Saetzema?  Come 

4  Hullo  I 


SMALL    SOULS  407 

along  .  .  .  Toetie?  Come  along.  Cut  for  part- 
ners. .  .  .  Come,  Paul  .  .  .  Do!" 

u  No,  Aunt,  I  won't  play,  thanks." 

"Oh,  it's  difficult  this  evening!"  said  Auntie. 
"  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  not  yet  here,  eh?  Come 
on.  .  .  *  A  jo  now,  let's  play!  Ah,  there  are  Ka- 
rel  and  Cateau!  Why  are  you  so  late,  eh?  .  .  . 
Ajo  then,  cut  for  partners  .  .  .  let's  have  a  rub- 
ber!" 

And  Auntie  at  once  enlisted  Karel  and  Cateau, 
refused  to  let  them  go,  forced  matters,  insisted  on 
having  a  nice,  quiet,  friendly  rubber,  as  at  all  the 
usual  "  family-groups."  But  Cateau  at  once  no- 
ticed the  excitement  infecting  everybody  in  both  the 
big  rooms  with  restlessness  and,  catching  sight  of 
Adolphine,  she  managed,  before  cutting,  to  escape 
Auntie  Lot  and  ask: 

"Why,  Adolph-ine,  what  are  you  cry-ing  for? 
Are  you  up-set  about  any-thing?  " 

"  The  hound!  The  cad!  And  he  wants  to  chal- 
lenge my  husband  in  addition !  " 

"  Chal-lenge  him?"  cried  the  terrified  Cateau. 
"A  reg-u-lar  du-el!  No!  The  bro-thers  and  sis- 
ters will  nev-er  consent  to  that!  There's  too  much 
been  talked  and  writ-ten  about  the  family  as  it  is!  " 
she  whispered.  "  Writ-ten  and  print-ed!  " 

And  Cateau's  whining  words  bore  evidence  to  the 
tragic  alarm  that  fluttered  through  her  sleek,  broad- 
bosomed  respectability,  while  her  owl's  eyes  opened 
rounder  and  wider  than  ever. 

But  Auntie  Lot  came  to  fetch  Cateau  and  dragged 


408  SMALL    SOULS 

her  by  the  arm  to  the  card-table.  The  rubber  was 
made  up:  Auntie,  Karel,  Cateau  and  Toetie.  But 
they  none  of  them  paid  attention  to  their  cards, 
which  fell  on  the  table,  one  after  the  other,  without 
the  least  effort  of  intelligence  on  the  part  of  the 
players,  as  though  obeying  the  laws  of  some  weird 
and  fantastic  game  of  bridge.  .  .  .  Auntie  was  con- 
stantly trying  to  ruff  with  spades  though  clubs  were 
trumps : 

"  Oh,  what  kassian!  "  5  said  Auntie. 

"  Ka-rel,"  said  Cateau,  excitedly,  "  as  the  eld-est 
bro-ther,  you  must  inter-fere  and  stop  that  du-el!  " 

"  I  ?     Thank  you :  not  if  I  know  it !  " 

"You  must,  Ka-rel:  You  are  the  eld-est  bro- 
ther. ...  Of  course,  Van  Na-ghel  " — and  she  pro- 
nounced the  name  with  a  certain  reverence — "  is  the 
hus-band  of  your  eld-est  sist-er;  but  if  he,  if  Van  " — 
reverentially — "  Van  Na-a-ghel  refuses  to  inter-fere, 
then  it's  your  duty,  Ka-rel,  as  the  eld-est  bro-ther,  to 
stop  that  du-el." 

"  It  won't  come  off!  "  said  Toetie,  good-humour- 
edly. 

" Massa*  brothers-in-law  don't  fight !  "  said 
Auntie  Lot.  "  But  Adolphine  shouldn't  have  be- 
haved like  that.  .  .  .  Very  wrong  of  Adolphine." 

"  But  it's  sa-ad,  all  the  same,  very  sa-ad,  for 
Adolph-ine,  all  those  art-icles,"  whined  Cateau. 
"  They  up-set  her.  She's  cry-ing,  And  it's  any- 
thing but  plea-sant  for  Van  Na-ghel,  don't  you  think, 
Un-de?" 

5 Bad  \\iJL  c  Oh,  nonsense! 


SMALL   SOULS  409 

This  to  Uncle  Ruyvenaer,  who  was  standing  be- 
hind her. 

"  It's  beastly,  it's  beastly!  "  said  Uncle.  "  They 
ought  never  to  have  come  and  lived  here.  It  was 
very  wrong  of  Marie  to  encourage  them." 

"  Oh,  well,  Herman,"  said  Auntie,  "  you  must  re- 
member she's  the  mother !  " 

"  Just  for  that  reason  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Papa !  "  said  Toetie,  wearily.  "  That  old 
perkara!  "  7 

"  Nothing  but  korek  in  tempo  doeloe  in  Holland," 
said  Auntie,  crossly. 

"  Well,  Aunt-ie,"  said  Cateau,  taking  offence, 
"  they're  not  al-ways  so  mor-al  in  the  Ea-east!  " 

"  But  there's  not  so  much  talk  in  Java  as  here," 
said  Auntie,  angrily. 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  they  do  some  talk-ing  there  too !  " 

"  But  not  so  spitefully  1  "  said  Auntie,  very  angrily 
and  finding  her  Dutch  words  with  great  difficulty. 
"  Not  .  .  .  not  so  cruelly,  so  cruelly." 

'  They  ought  never  to  have  come  and  lived  here," 
Uncle  Ruyvenaer  repeated. 

And  he  fussed  off  to  Van  Saetzema,  whose  eyes 
were  still  filled  with  terror  at  the  possible  duel. 

"  Look,  Mamma,"  said  Toetie,  winking  towards 
Auntie  Tine  and  Auntie  Rine,  who  were  sitting  side 
by  side  in  a  corner  of  the  big  drawing-room,  each 
with  her  knitting  in  her  lap.  "  Those  two  are  quite 
happy !  They  don't  bother  about  all  these  matters  I 
They  don't  know  anything." 

7  Business. 


4io  SMALL    SOULS 

"  In  Holland  .  .  ."  said  Auntie,  crossly. 

"  But  in  the  Ea-east  1  "...  Cateau  at  once  broke 
in,  spitefully. 

The  rubber  was  spoilt,  for  Auntie,  in  her  present 
state  of  irritation,  could  no  longer  see  the  cards  in 
her  hand.  The  old  Indian  lady  felt  that  there  was 
hostility  to  Constance  among  the  relations;  and,  with 
the  kindliness  of  a  nature  used  to  the  little  Indian 
scandals,  she  thought  it  exaggerated.  Moreover, 
Gateau's  Dutch  arrogance  in  speaking  of  "  the  East  " 
had  put  her  quite  out  of  temper;  and  she  flung  her 
cards  on  the  table  and  said: 

"  Soedah,  I  won't  play  with  you  any  more !  " 

And,  without  further  explanation,  she  broke  up 
the  table  and  walked  straight  to  Constance,  who  sat 
talking  to  Paul  in  a  corner: 

"  I'm  coming  to  sit  with  you  a  bit,  Constance !  " 

"  Do,  Auntie." 

"  What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is,  don't  mind  about 
it !  Shake  it  off  your  cold  clothes !  8  What  does  it 
matter?  Hor-r-rible  article!  But  I  tell  you:  shake 
it  off  your  cold  clothes !  " 

And  Auntie  talked  away,  suddenly  lighting  on  all 
sorts  of  queer  Dutch  words  and  expressions,  told 
Constance  of  horrible  articles  in  India  which  people 
out  there  had  shaken  off  their  cold  clothes. 

At  this  moment,  Bertha,  Van  Naghel  and  Mari- 
anne arrived,  very  late.  Mamma  at  once  went  up 
to  them.  The  people  in  the  two  rooms  now  made 

8  Aunt  Ruyvenaer  here  perpetrates  the  blunder,  common  among 
half-caste  ladies,  of  mixing  up  two  separate  Dutch  proverbs. 


SMALL    SOULS  411 

some  attempt  to  adopt  an  attitude;  and  their  excite- 
ment cooled  down.  But  it  struck  them  all  that  Van 
Naghel  looked  exceedingly  tired,  Bertha  pale  and 
Marianne  as  though  she  had  been  crying;  her  eyes 
were  specks  under  her  swollen  lids.  They  exchanged 
vague,  almost  doleful  good-evenings,  giving  a  hand 
here,  a  kiss  there.  .  .  . 

After  all  the  agitation,  a  gloom  descended  upon 
the  family.  The  voices  sank  into  a  whisper.  And, 
through  the  whispering,  suddenly,  the  voices  of  the 
two  old  aunts  sounded  piercingly,  as  they  spoke  to 
the  Van  Naghels: 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  you,  I  know  you.     Good- 
evening,  Van  Naghel." 

"  Good-evening,  Aunt." 

"  Good-evening,  Toetie.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  you : 
you're  Toetie,  Van  Naghel's  wife.  And  who's 
that?" 

'  That's  my  girl,  Auntie :  Marianne.     And  I'm 
Bertha.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that's  Emilietje !  "  Auntie  Tine 
screamed  in  Auntie  Rine's  ear,  in  a  moment  of  sud- 
den and  not  yet  perfect  lucidity.  "  That's  Toetie's 
daughter  Emilie-etjel  " 

"  No,  Auntie,  Emilie  is  married!  " 

"What  d'you  say?  -Is  she  dead?" 

"  No,"  screamed  Auntie  Tine,  "  Floortje,  Floortje 
is  married!  This  is  Emilie-etje!  " 

"  Oh,  I  see !     Good-evening,  Emilietje." 

A  smile  lit  up  gloomy  features  here  and  there. 
The  aunts  never  knew  any  one  properly,  were  always 


4i2  SMALL    SOULS 

a  little  muddled  among  all  those  nephews  and  nieces 
of  a  later  generation.  And,  as  a  rule,  nobody  trou- 
bled for  more  than  a  moment  to  remind  them  of  the 
real  names.  With  the  stubbornness  of  extremely  old 
women,  they  continued  to  cling  to  their  confusion  of 
generations,  persons  and  names. 

Constance,  sitting  beside  Paul,  watched  Bertha. 
In  an  importunate  obsession  to  immerse  herself  in 
what  she,  at  that  moment,  called  her  own  disgrace — 
especially  as  that  disgrace  had  been  stamped  in  print 
— she  had  done  nothing  but  ask  Paul: 

"Let  me  read  it!  " 

And  Paul  had  done  nothing  but  say : 

"No,  Constance,  don't  read  it!" 

Constance  now  saw,  by  the  faces  of  Van  Naghel, 
Bertha  and  Marianne,  that  they  knew  about  it  and 
had  read  it.  All  three  said  how-do-you-do  to  her  in 
a  very  cold  tone. 

Van  Naghel  was  at  once  asked  by  Mamma  to  make 
up  one  of  the  tables.  The  old  woman,  like  Con- 
stance, had  read  nothing,  knew  nothing  certain;  but 
a  word  seized  here  and  there  had  alarmed  her,  had 
worried  her;  and  she  felt  very  unhappy,  as  if  on  the 
verge  of  tears.  She  noticed  in  her  children,  as  it 
were  for  the  first  time,  something  strange  and  hard, 
in  the  nervous  excitement  of  that  evening,  something, 
it  is  true,  which  at  once  hushed  and  calmed  down 
when  she  approached,  but  which  left  a  strained  feel- 
ing behind  it,  a  lack  of  harmony  which  she  did  not 
understand.  Was  it  because  of  that  scurrilous  pa- 
per? Or  did  they  disapprove  of  Constance'  going 


SMALL    SOULS  413 

to  Bertha's  on  her  day?  The  old  woman  did  not 
know;  but  never  had  a  Sunday  evening  passed  with 
such  difficulty;  and  yet  what  was  it  all  about?  An 
article,  a  visit.  ...  An  article,  a  visit.  .  .  .  She 
endeavoured,  despairingly,  to  look  upon  these  things 
as  small,  as  meaningless,  as  nothing;  but  it  was  no 
use :  the  question  of  the  visit  was  very  important,  an 
undoubted  blunder  on  Constance'  part;  and  the  arti- 
cle— Heavens,  the  article! — was,  though  she  her- 
self had  not  read  it,  a  disgrace,  raking  up  the  scan- 
dal of  years  ago  which  soiled  and  defiled  all  her 
children,  all,  all  her  nearest  and  dearest.  No,  these 
things  were  not  insignificant:  they  were  great  and  im- 
portant things  in  their  lives.  What,  what  could  be 
more  important  tha.n  what  might  happen  through 
that  visit  to  Bertha  and — Heavens! — a  scurrilous 
article?  .  .  . 

Bertha  refused  to  play,  declared  that  she  hadn't 
the  head  for  it.  And,  though  she  had  at  first  de- 
liberately avoided  Constance,  she  now  seemed  con- 
stantly, almost  fatally,  to  be  moving  nearer  her,  rest- 
lessly, unable  to  keep  her  seat,  amid  the  excitement 
which  once  more  slowly  took  hold  of  them  all,  after 
their  first  attempt  at  calmness  from  respect  for  their 
brother-in-law,  the  cabinet-minister.  But  Constance 
went  on  talking  to  Paul  and,  in  her  turn,  avoided  her 
sister's  glances;  until,  at  last,  Bertha,  as  though  un- 
able to  keep  it  in  any  longer,  sat  down  on  a  chair 
beside  her  and  said: 

"  Constance  .  .  ." 

"Well?" 


4i4  SMALL    SOULS 

"  Van  Naghel  is.  .  ." 

"Van  Naghel  is  what?" 

"  Van  Naghel  is  ...  very  much  put  out.  I  can't 
understand  how  he  can  play  bridge." 

"  What  is  he  put  out  about?  " 

"  About  you." 

"About  me?" 

"  Yes,  about  you." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Bertha !  "  said  Constance,  coolly. 
"  What  have  I  done  wrong?  " 

"  Of  course,  it's  not  your  fault,  about  those  arti- 
cles. But  the  first  was  exceedingly  unpleasant  for 
Van  Naghel  .  .  ." 

"  And  the  second  I  haven't  read,"  said  Constance, 
coldly. 

"  No,"  Paul  broke  in,  "  I  advised  Constance  not 
to  read  it." 

"  And  I  don't  mean  to  read  it:  it  has  ceased  to 
interest  me.  Is  Van  Naghel  put  out  by  that  article 
about  me?  " 

"  He's  put  out  by  the  visit  .  .  ." 

"The  visit  .  .  .?" 

"  The  visit  you  paid  me,  on  Tuesday." 

"  Is  Van  Naghel  put  out  by  a  visit  which  I  paid 
you  on  Tuesday?"  asked  Constance,  very  con- 
temptuously, in  surprise. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  come  on  my  day." 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  angry,  Constance :  I  have  had  such  a 
scene  with  my  husband  as  it  is  I  Don't  be  angry, 
for  Heaven's  sake !  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I 


SMALL    SOULS  415 

am  full  of  sympathy  for  you :  you  are  my  sister  and 
I  am  fond  of  you ;  but  that  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that 
you  were  wrong,  that  you  ought  not  to  have  come  on 
my  day.  Why  did  you  do  it?  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you  at  any  other  time.  But  just  on  an  at-home  day, 
when  you  risked  meeting,  well,  just  the  people  whom 
you  did  meet:  Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh,  the  Van  den 
Heuvel  Steyns !  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  What  made 
you  do  it?  " 

"  So  I  am  not  fit  to  appear  at  my  sister's  at-home 
day?" 

"  Please,  Constance,  don't  take  it  like  that.  I  am 
not  unsympathetic.  We  even  had  a  talk  once  .  .  ." 

Constance  laughed  aloud: 

"  Once !  "  she  said.     "  Once !  " 

"  Life  is  very  busy,  Constance.  But  I  am  always 
glad  to  see  you.  Only,  only  .  .  ." 

"  Only  not  on  your  days." 

"  It's  not  my  fault." 

"No,   it's  mine." 

"  Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh  is  a  niece  of  .  .  ." 

"  De  Staffelaer." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  his  name  had  been  men- 
tioned between  them. 

"  The  Van  den  Heuvel  Steyns  are  .  .  ." 

"  His  friends." 

"  So,  Constance,  you  understand  for  your- 
self .  .  ." 

"  I  told  you  on  Tuesday,  Bertha,  I  am  going  to 
make  my  fifteen  years  count." 

"  Constance,  don't  attempt  impossibilities." 


4i6  SMALL   SOULS 

"What's  an  impossibility?" 

"  Don't  think  only  of  yourself.  Think  of  us. 
Think  of  Van  Naghel,  of  his  position.  You  make 
it  impossible  for  him,  if  you  insist  on  .  .  ." 

"  Coming  to  your  at-home  days  .  .  .?  " 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Constance,  don't  be  angry. 
It  is  impossible." 

"What  is?" 

"  For  you  to  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  To  force  the  position.  When  Mamma  spoke 
to  us,  eight  months  ago,  about  you  coming  to  the 
Hague,  Van  Naghel  at  once  said  that  our  house  was 
open  to  you  and  your  husband,  but  that  you  must  not 
push  and  assert  yourselves." 

"  So  that  was  the  condition?  " 

"  It  was  not  a  condition,  Constance:  it  was  merely 
advice,  given  in  your  own  interest  .  .  ." 

"  And  in  yours." 

'  Very  well,  in  ours  too.  People  come  to  my 
days,  just  because  of  my  husband's  position  and  con- 
nections, people  who  are  relations  and  friends  of 
De  Staffelaer's,  people  who  have  never  forgiven  you 
and  never  will.  Can't  you  see  that  for  yourself, 
Constance?  Must  I  explain  it  to  you?  " 

"  Bertha,  I  never  had  any  desire  to  push  or  assert 
myself." 

"  Then  what  makes  you?  " 

"  What  makes  me  ?  "  And  it  was  as  though  Con- 
stance was  searching  for  the  answer.  "  What  but 
you,  all  of  you?  " 


SMALL    SOULS  417 

"  Don't  be  unreasonable,  Constance." 
'  What  else  did  I  want  but  to  come  and  live  here 
quietly  at  the  Hague  and  see  all  of  you  again — my 
brothers,  my  sisters,  your  children — without  ever 
dreaming  of  pushing  myself?  Who  first  spoke  of 
pushing?  You,  you  and  your  husband,  Bertha!  " 

"  Constance !  " 

"  Who  first  spoke  about  the  Court.,  Bertha  ? 
Adolphine." 

"  Please,  Constance,  please  .  .  ." 

"  I  never  thought,  Bertha,  of  getting  presented  at 
Court;  but  now  I  shall,  at  the  first  occasion  that  of- 
fers." 

"Constance!"  And  Bertha  wrung  her  hands. 
"It's  impossible!" 

'  Yes,  it  is  possible;  and  I  mean  to  do  it." 

"  Constance,  how  can  you  wish  to  defy  people's 
opinions  like  that!  " 

"  Because  of  those  very  people!  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Constance.  All  my 
friends  .  .  ." 

"  Exactly,  because  of  your  friends." 

"  All  our  family  .  .  ." 

"  Because  of  our  family." 

"  Wait  a  bit.  Constance.  I  don't  understand  you. 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to  say.  But  just  con- 
sider, just  consider.  You  are  not  only  making  your- 
self impossible,  but  you  are  making  us  impossible : 
my  husband,  my  house,  our  position,  our  chil- 
dren. .  .  ." 

"Nonsense!" 


4i8  SMALL    SOULS 

"  It's  not  nonsense,  Constance.  Do  you  want  to 
make  me  regret  that  we  yielded  to  Mamma's  wish 
to  have  you  here  again,  near  her,  among  us 
all?" 

"  No,  Bertha,  but  I  can  no  longer  remain — for  the 
sake  of  people,  for  the  sake  of  the  family — in  the 
same  obscure  corner  in  which  I  remained  for  years 
in  Brussels,  where  I  was  disowned  by  all  of  you  as 
a  disgrace.  I  can't  do  it,  Bertha,  I  can't  do  it.  I 
could  do  it,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned;  but  I  can't,  be- 
cause of  my  son." 

"  He  is  a  child  still." 

"  He  is  growing  older  every  day.  I  see,  Bertha, 
that  I  ought  either  to  have  stayed  away  from  you  all, 
without  indulging  my  modest  yearnings  and  simple 
wishes,  or  else  to  have  rehabilitated  myself  at  once, 
in  the  eyes  of  all  the  Hague." 

"  Constance  .  .  ." 

"  But  it's  not  too  late.  It's  not  too  late  to  repair 
my  mistake.  I  can  still  take  steps  towards  my  re- 
habilitation. And  I  ask,  I  demand  that  rehabilita- 
tion, of  you,  Bertha,  in  particular." 

"Of  me?" 

"  Yes,  Bertha,  of  you  in  particular.  Just  because 
you  are  the  sister  whose  husband  not  only  occupies 
a  high  position,  but  also  possesses  more  connections 
than  any  of  us  in  the  set  that  used  to  be  our  father's. 
Just  for  that  reason,  Bertha,  I  demand  my  rehabili- 
tation of  you.  If  I'm  not  to  be  allowed  to  live 
quietly,  in  a  corner,  at  the  Hague,  surrounded  by  a 
little  family-affection;  if  those  simple  wishes  are  to 


SMALL    SOULS  419 

be  discussed  and  criticized;  if  they  are  the  cause  that 
my  unfortunate  past — my  fault,  my  sin,  whatever 
you  like  to  call  it — is  raked  up,  not  only  in  dirty  lit- 
tle scurrilous  rags,  but  also  at  the  gossipy  tea-parties 
and  clubs  at  the  Hague,  then  I  will  come  out  of  my 
corner,  then  I  will  be  rehabilitated:  not  for  my  own 
sake  alone,  but  mainly  for  my  son's;  and  I  demand 
my  rehabilitation  of  you.  It  is  possible  that  you 
don't  care  for  my  sisterly  love;  but,  as  a  condition  of 
that  love,  I  now  demand  my  rehabilitation." 

"  But,  good  Heavens,  Constance,  what  can  I,  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  do  for  me?  Receive  me  on  your 
at-home  days.  Make  it  clear  to  your  husband  that 
you  must  receive  me,  that  you  can't  act  otherwise 
towards  a  sister  than  receive  her,  now  that  she  has 
once — in  an  evil  hour — returned  to  the  Hague.  Not 
hesitate  any  longer  to  introduce  me  to  whoever  it 
may  be,  in  your  drawing-room,"  she  exclaimed,  with 
her  dark  eyes  quivering,  her  every  nerve  trembling, 
as  she  sat  between  Bertha  and  Paul. 

Her  sister  was  almost  panting  with  suppressed  ex- 
citement and  helplessness,  while  her  brother  listened 
in  dismay  to  her  demands,  which  appeared  to  him, 
the  blase,  world-worn  sage,  to  contain  no  philosophy 
whatever.  And  Constance  went  on : 

"What  can  you  do  for  me?  Look  upon  it  as 
only  natural — and  try  to  make  your  friends  look 
upon  it  as  natural — that  you  should  receive  me !  " 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  do  all  that  you  ask  of 
me,  Constance,  if  there  was  not  the  objection  that 


420  SMALL    SOULS 

we  see  and  always  have  seen  relations  and  friends 
or  De  Staffelaer's." 

"  Isn't  your  sister  worth  a  single  effort  to  you?  " 

"  I  can't  choose  between  my  husband  and  my  sis- 
ter." 

"  Bertha !  "  said  Constance,  almost  weeping  with 
excitement  and  nervousness.  u  Bertha  1  Tryl  For 
Heaven's  sake,  try  to  do  what  I  ask  I  It's  for  my 
child!  It's  not  for  me:  it's  for  my  son!  He  will 
have  to  take  up  a  career  which  I,  which  I  made  im- 
possible for  Van  der  Welcke.  Do  it  for  my  son's 
sake.  God  in  His  Heaven!  Must  I  go  on  my 
knees  to  you?  Do  it,  I  beseech  you,  Bertha :  try,  try 
to  do  it;  speak  to  Van  Naghel.  .  .  ." 

"  Constance,  I  will  speak  to  Van  Naghel;  but  how 
can  you  ever  hope  not  that  we,  but  that  other  people 
will  forgive,  will  forget:  De  Staffelaer's  relations,  De 
Staffelaer's  old  friends?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  hope  it !  And,  if  you  help  me,  Bertha, 
if  you  help  me,  it  will  not  be  so  utterly  impossible." 

"  How  do  I  know  that  Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh  or 
the  Van  den  Heuvel  Steyns  will  ever  come  to  us 
again,  after  meeting  you  at  my  house?  " 

"So  you  decline?"  cried  Constance,  flaring  up. 
"  So  you  refuse?  " 

"  Constance,  I  should  like  to  do  what  you  ask; 
there  is  nothing  I  should  like  better.  But  people, 
but  Van  Naghel  .  .  ." 

"  Then  let  me  speak  to  Van  Naghel!  " 

"  Constance  .  .  ." 

"  Let  me  speak  to  Van  Naghel,  I  say!  " 


SMALL    SOULS  421 

"  Don't  make  a  scene." 

"  I  sha'n't  make  a  scene;  but  let  me  speak  to  Van 
Naghel.  I  see  your  husband  is  getting  up:  he  has 
finished  playing.  Tell  him  I  want  to  speak  to  him. 
Let  Van  der  Welcke  be  present  at  our  conversation. 
Paul,  you  must  be  there  too.  .  .  ." 

"  But,  Constance,  why,  why  speak  to  him?  I  am 
so  afraid  Mamma  will  notice  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Mamma  will  see  nothing.  I  want  to  give 
her  as  little  pain  as  possible.  But  I  must  speak  to 
your  husband,  in  your  presence  and  Van  der 
Welcke's.  I  must,  Bertha,  and  I  will.  Call  your 
husband.  And  we'll  go  into  the  boudoir." 

She  rose,  trembling.  She  was  shaking  all  over; 
and,  as  she  almost  fell  where  she  stood,  a  sudden 
thought  arose  in  her  and  paralyzed  all  her  energies: 

"  Why  am  I  talking  like  this,  thinking  like  this, 
wishing  this?  How  small  I  am,  how  small  my  con- 
duct is!  Really,  what  does  it  all  matter:  people; 
and  what  they  think;  and  what  they  write  and 
say?  Is  that  life?  Is  that  all?  Is  there  nothing 
else?  .  .  ." 

But  another  thought  gave  her  fresh  zest,  fresh 
courage.  She  remembered  the  conversation  which 
she  had  had  with  her  husband  a  little  while  ago,  she 
remembered  his  reproach  that  she  was  not  thinking 
of  her  son,  that  she  was  doing  nothing  for  her  son, 
that  she  would  let  herself  take  root  in  the  shade, 
continue  to  vegetate,  in  her  disgrace,  in  her  corner, 
withdrawn  into  herself,  in  her  own  rooms,  would 
continue  to  sit  "  cursing  her  luck  "  in  her  Kerkho- 


422  SMALL    SOULS 

flaan.  No,  she  felt  fresh  zest,  fresh  courage;  and 
she  almost  pushed  Bertha  as  she  repeated: 

"  Call  your  husband.  .  .  .  Paul,  will  you  please 
call  Van  der  Welcke  and  ask  him  to  come  to  the 
boudoir?  .  .  ."  . 

She  could  hardly  walk,  she  was  pale  as  a  corpse ; 
and  her  black  eyes  quivered.  She  went  alone  to  the 
little  boudoir.  There  was  no  one  there.  De- 
canters, glasses,  cakes  and  sandwiches  were  put  out, 
as  usual.  She  looked  up  at  her  father's  portrait. 
Oh,  what  an  ugly  daub  it  seemed  to  her :  hard,  with 
the  hard,  expressionless  eyes  and  all  that  false  glit- 
ter on  the  yellow-and-white  stars  of  the  decorations ! 
It  stared  at  her  like  an  implacable  spectre,  grim  and 
unforgiving.  It  stared  at  her  almost  as  though  it 
wished  to  speak: 

"  Go.  Go  away.  Go  out  of  my  house  of  honour, 
of  greatness  and  decency.  Go.  Go  away.  Go  out 
of  my  town.  Go  away  from  me  and  mine.  Go. 
It  was  you  who  murdered  me.  You  caused  my  long 
illness,  you  caused  my  death,  you,  you!  Go!  " 

The  little  room  stifled  her.  She  would  have  liked 
to  run  away,  but  Van  der  Welcke  and  Paul  entered. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do,  Constance?"  asked 
Van  der  Welcke. 

"  To  speak  to  Van  Naghel." 

"  Not  an  explanation?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  He's  annoyed  at  my  visit  of 
Tuesday  last." 

"  Annoyed !  "  Van  der  Welcke  seethed.  "  An- 
noyed at  your  visit!  " 


SMALL  SOULS  423 

"  For  God's  sake,  Van  der  Welcke !  "  cried  Paul, 
terrified.  "  Don't  always  fly  out  likje  that.  Do  re- 
member .  .  ." 

"  Annoyed  I  "  foamed  Van  der  Welcke.  "  An- 
noyed!" 

"  Henri,  please! "  cried  Constance.  "  I  thank 
you  for  resenting  the  insult  offered  to  your  wife. 
But  restrain  yourself:  he'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  Re- 
strain yourself,  for  Addie's  sake.  .  .  ." 

"Restrain  myself!  Restrain  myself!"  shouted 
Van  der  Welcke,  like  a  madman. 

The  door  opened.  Van  Naghel  and  Bertha  en- 
tered. 

"Do  you  want  to  speak  to  me,  Constance?" 
asked  Van  Naghel. 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  speak  to  you  for  a 
moment,  Van  Naghel,"  said  Constance,  while  Paul 
made  signs  to  Van  der  Welcke  as  though  begging 
him  to  control  himself.  "  Bertha  tells  me  that 
you  are  sorry  that  I  called  at  your  house  on  Tues- 
day, on  her  reception-day." 

"  Constance,"  Van  Naghel  began,  cautiously,  try- 
ing to  be  diplomatic,  "  I  .  .  ." 

"  Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,  Van  Naghel. 
I  ask  you  kindly,  let  me  finish  and  say  what  I  have 
to  say.  It  is  simply  this:  I  regret  that  I  went  to 
your  house,  on  Bertha's  at-home  day,  without  first 
asking  if  I  should  be  welcome.  I  admit,  it  was  a 
mistake.  I  oughtn't  to  have  done  it.  I  ought  first 
to  have  spoken  to  the  two  of  you  as  I  am  glad  to  be 
speaking  to  you  now,  Van  Naghel,  to  explain  my  po- 


424  SMALL    SOULS 

sition  and  my  wishes,  in  the  hope  that  you  will  show 
some  indulgence  to  your  wife's  sister  and  consent  to 
help  her  fulfil  a  natural  desire.  You  see,  Van 
Naghel,  when  I  arrived  here,  eight  months  ago,  I 
had  no  other  thought  than  to  live  here  quietly,  in 
my  corner,  with  a  little  affection  around  me,  a  little 
affection  from  my  brothers  and  sisters,  whom  I  had 
not  seen  for  so  long.  It  is  true,  I  had  no  particular 
claim  to  that  affection;  but,  when  I  felt  within  my- 
self a  wish,  a  longing,  a  yearning  for  Holland,  for 
the  Hague,  for  all  of  you,  I  cherished  the  illusion 
that  there  would  be  something — just  a  little — of  that 
feeling  in  my  brothers  and  sisters.  I  don't  know 
how  far  I  was  mistaken;  I  won't  go  into  that  now. 
Bertha  has  just  told  me  that  she  feels  to  me  as  to 
a  sister;  and  I  accept  that  gratefully.  Van  Naghel, 
I  cannot  expect  that  you,  my  brother-in-law,  should 
have  any  sort  of  family  feeling  for  me;  but,  as  Ber- 
tha's husband,  I  ask  you,  I  beg  of  you,  try  to  be  a 
brother  to  me.  Help  me.  Don't  resent  that  I  paid 
you  a  visit  without  notice  and,  in  so  doing,  shocked 
and  surprised  you.  But  allow  me,  allow  me — I  ask 
it  as  a  favour,  Van  Naghel,  for  my  son's  sake — allow 
me,  in  your  house  first  of  all,  to  try  and  attain  .  .  . 
to  attain  a  sort  of  rehabilitation,  in  the  eyes  of  our 
acquaintances,  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  Hague.  I  stand 
here  entreating  you,  Van  Naghel :  grant  me  this  and 
help  me.  Allow  me  to  come  on  your  wife's  days, 
even  though  I  do  meet  friends  and  relations  of  De 
Staffelaer's.  Good  Heavens,  Van  Naghel,  what 
harm,  what  earthly  harm  can  it  do  you  to  exercise 


SMALL    SOULS  425 

your  authority  and  protect  me  a  little  and  defend  me 
against  mean  and  petty  slanders  ?  If  you  show  some 
magnanimity  and  help  me  to  make  people  ...  to 
make  people  forget  what  I  did  fifteen,  fifteen  years 
ago,  they  will  drop  their  slanders ;  and  I  shall  be  re- 
habilitated, in  your  house,  Van  Naghel,  just  because 
of  your  high  position  and  the  consideration  which 
you  enjoy  and  your  many  connections  and  your  power 
to  carry  out  what  you  set  your  mind  on.  Van 
Naghel,  if  only  you  would  help  me:  if  not  for  my 
own  sake,  for  my  son's !  It's  to  help  him,  later,  in 
his  career,  which  he  will  take  up  at  his  father's  wish 
and  his  grandparents' :  the  same  career  as  his 
father's,  which  I  ruined.  I  am  asking  so  little  of 
you,  Van  Naghel;  and  because  you  are  you,  it  means 
so  little  for  you  to  consent  to  my  request.  Van 
Naghel,  Papa  helped  you,  in  the  old  days:  I  ask  you 
now  to  help  me,  his  child  and  your  wife's  sister. 
Let  me  come  to  Bertha's  receptions.  You  know 
Mrs.  van  Eilenburgh:  help  me  to  prepare  people  for 
my  intention — which  they  were  really  the  first  to  sug- 
gest— to  be  presented  at  Court;  and  ask  us,  this  win- 
ter, once,  just  once,  to  one  of  your  official  dinners." 

She  stood  before  her  brother-in-law,  pale  and 
trembling,  almost  like  a  supplicant;  and,  while  she 
besought  him,  the  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind: 

'  What  am  I  begging  for?  How  base  and  small 
I  am  making  myself:  dear  God,  how  terribly  small! 
And  is  that,  seriously,  life?  Is  that  the  only  life? 
Or  is  there  something  else?  .  .  ." 


426  SMALL    SOULS 

She  looked  around  her.  While  she  stood  in  front 
of  Van  Naghel,  Bertha  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  trem- 
bling with  nervous  excitement,  while  Van  der  Welcke 
and  Paul,  as  though  in  expectation,  listened  breath- 
lessly to  Constance'  words,  which  came  in  broken 
jerks  from  her  throat.  Then,  at  last,  slowly,  as 
though  he  were  speaking  in  the  Chamber,  Van 
Naghel's  voice  made  itself  heard,  softly,  with  its  po- 
lite, rather  affected  and  pompous  intonation : 

"  Constance,  I  shall  certainly  do  my  best  to  satisfy 
all  your  wishes,  all  your  requests.  I  will  help  you, 
as  far  as  I  can,  if  you  really  think  that  I  can  be  of 
use  to  you.  Certainly  I  owe  a  great  deal  to  Papa; 
and,  if,  later,  I  can  possibly  do  anything  for  your  son, 
I  assure  you — and  you,  too,  Van  der  Welcke — I  shall 
not  fail  to  do  so.  I  give  you  my  hand  on  it,  my 
hand.  I  shall  certainly,  gladly,  with  all  my  heart, 
help  Addie  in  the  career  which  he  selects:  you  may 
be  sure  of  that.  But,  Constance,  what  you  ask  me 
so  frankly,  to  ...  to  invite  you  and  Van  der 
Welcke  to  one  of  our  dinners,  at  which  you  would 
meet  people  who  really,  really  would  have  no  attrac- 
tion for  you :  oh,  you  wouldn't  care  for  it,  Constance, 
I  assure  you,  you  really  wouldn't  care  for  it !  And, 
if  you  want  my  honest  opinion,  honestly,  as  between 
brother  and  sister,  I  should  say  to  you,  candidly, 
Constance,  don't  insist  on  coming  to  our  official  din- 
ners: they're  no  amusement;  they're  an  awful  bore, 
sometimes :  boring,  aren't  they,  Bertha  ?  Very  tedi- 
ous, very  tedious,  sometimes.  And  the  receptions, 


SMALL   SOULS  427 

at  which  you  are  always  likely  to  meet  people  you 
wouldn't  care  for :  well,  if  you  take  my  advice  .  .  ." 

"  Is  that  all,'  Van  Naghel,  that  you  have  to  say, 
when  I  lay  bare  my  soul  to  you,  here,  between  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  and,  without  any  diplomatic  varnish, 
ask  you,  as  far  as  you  can,  to  rehabilitate  me  in  your 
house?  " 

"  But,  Constance,  what  a  word !  What  a  word 
to  use!  .  .  ." 

"  It's  the  right  word,  Van  Naghel ;  there  is  no 
other  word:  I  want  my  rehabilitation." 

"  Constance,  really,  I  am  prepared  to  help  you  in 
all  you  ask:  and  whatever  is  in  my  power  .  .  ." 

But  Van  der  Welcke  flared  up : 

"  Van  Naghel,  please  keep  those  non-committal 
expressions  for  the  Chamber.  My  wife  asked  you 
and  I  now  ask  you :  will  you  receive  us  this  winter  in 
a  way  that  will  make  your  set,  which  was  once  ours, 
take  us  up,  even  though  we  rub  shoulders  with  De 
Staffelaer's  nephews  and  nieces  and  even  though  peo- 
ple talk  about  what  happened  fifteen  years  ago?  " 

"  Van  der  Welcke,"  said  Van  Naghel,  nettled, 
"  the  expressions  I  choose  to  employ  in  the  Chamber 
are  my  own  affair." 

"  Answer  my  question !  " 

"  Henri !  "  Constance  implored. 

"  Answer  my  question !  "  insisted  Van  der  Welcke, 
full  of  suppressed  rage,  feeling  ready  to  smash  every- 
thing to  pieces. 

"  Well  then,  no !  "  said  Van  Naghel,  haughtily. 


428  SMALL    SOULS 

"No?  .  .  ." 

"  It's  impossible !  I  have  too  many  attacks  to  en- 
dure as  it  is,  in  the  Chamber,  in  the  press,  every- 
where; and  I  can't  do  what  you  ask.  You  have 
made  yourself  impossible,  to  our  Hague  society,  you 
and  your  wife,  the  wife  of  your  former  chief;  and 
it's  simply  impossible  that  I  should  receive  you  in 
my  house  on  the  same  footing  as  my  friends,  ac- 
quaintances and  colleagues.  That  is  no  reason  why 
we  should  not  continue  to  be  brothers  and  sisters." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  would  wish  for  or  accept 
your  brotherliness  on  those  terms?  " 

"  Then  refuse  it !  "  cried  Van  Naghel,  himself 
losing  his  temper  and  forgetting  to  pick  his  words. 
"  Refuse  it;  and  all  the  better  for  me!  I  shall  be 
only  too  glad  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you. 
Your  wife  compromised  me  the  other  day  by  coming 
to  Bertha's  reception,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
course  .  .  ." 

Van  der  Welcke  clenched  his  fists : 

"  My  wife,"  he  echoed,  "  compromised  you?  By 
coming  to  .  .  .?  " 

"  Van  der  Welcke !  "  Paul  entreated. 

"  Yes,"  said  Van  Naghel.     "  She  did." 

"  Don't  you  dare,"  cried  Van  der  Welcke,  "  don't 
you  dare  to  criticize  my  wife's  actions  in  any  way!  " 

"  Your  wife  compromised  us,"  Van  Naghel  re- 
peated. 

But  Van  der  Welcke  let  himself  go,  unable  to  re- 
strain himself  any  longer.  He  made  a  rush  for  Van 
Naghel,  raised  his  hand: 


SMALL   SOULS  429 

"  Take  that!  "  he  shouted,  crimson  with  rage,  ut- 
terly beside  himself. 

But  Paul  flung  himself  between  them  and  seized 
Van  der  Welcke's  arm.  Bertha  burst  into  hysterics, 
uttered  scream'  after  scream.  Constance  almost 
fainted.  The  two  men  stood  facing  each  other,  no 
longer  drawing-room  people,  blazing  now  with  mu- 
tual hatred: 

"  I  am  at  your  disposal,  whenever  you  please !  " 
said  Van  der  Welcke. 

"  Of  course  you  are !  "  yelled  Van  Naghel,  his 
eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  his  cheeks  scarlet  as 
though  he  had  actually  received  the  blow.  "  Of 
course  you  are !  You  have  nothing  to  lose.  You 
can  afford  to  behave  like  a  quarrelsome  puppy,  hit- 
ting people,  fighting,  duelling  .  .  ." 

And,  turning  on  his  heel,  quivering  with  rage  and 
shame,  he  disappeared  from  their  eyes  through  the 
door  that  opened  on  the  landing.  .  .  . 

The  door  of  the  drawing-room  opened.  Dorine, 
Adolphine  and  Cateau  had  heard  the  angry  words, 
had  heard  Bertha's  sobs  and  screams.  They  went  to 
Bertha's  assistance,  while  Paul  urged  Constance,  who 
was  half  fainting,  to  go  into  the  drawing-room.  She 
staggered  to  her  feet:  • 

"My  God!  "she  cried.  "  Henri!  Henri!  What 
have  you  done !  " 

Mrs.  van  Lowe  came  up,  with  Aunt  Ruyvenaer: 

11  My  child,  my  child !  " 

Constance  was  clinging  to  Paul  like  a  madwoman 
and  kept  on  repeating: 


430  SMALL    SOULS 

"  My  God  I  Henri !  Henri !  What  have  you 
done!" 

Addie  came  up. 

Mamma!  " 

"Addie!  Addie!  My  boy!  My  God!  My 
God!  What  has  Papa  done!  " 

Mamma  van  Lowe  dropped  into  a  chair,  sob- 
bing. 

But,  at  that  moment,  the  two  old  aunts,  sitting  all 
alone  in  the  second  drawing-room,  looked  up.  On 
those  evenings,  they  used  generally  to  doze,  hardly 
recognizing  the  various  relations,  and  to  wait  until 
the  cakes  and  lemonade  were  handed  round,  going 
home  after  they  had  had  them.  But,  this  evening, 
sitting  quietly  in  their  chairs,  looking  quietly,  with 
eyes  askance,  at  the  people  talking  and  playing  their 
cards  and  uttering  their  harsh  judgments,  they  felt 
the  usual  peaceful  calmness  to  be  absent  from 
Marie's  family-Sunday.  There  was  something  the 
matter.  Something  was  happening,  they  did  not 
know  what.  But  it  suddenly  seemed  as  though 
Auntie  Tine,  when  she  saw  her  younger  sister,  Mrs. 
van  Lowe,  bursting  into  sobs,  became  very  lucid,  for, 
opening  wide  and  clear  her  screwed-up  eyes,  she  said 
to  Auntie  Rine,  very  loudly,  with  the  sharp  tone  of  a 
woman  hard  of  hearing,  to  whom  her  own  voice 
sounds  soft  and  almost  whispering: 

"Rine,  Rine,  Marie's  crying!" 

"  What  ?     Is  she  crying,  Tine  ?  " 

'  Yes,  she's  crying." 

"  What  is  she  crying  for?  " 


SMALL   SOULS  431 

"  No  doubt,  Rine,  because  one  of  the  children's 
dead." 

"Dead?" 

"  Yes,  Rine." 

"  Oh,  how  sad!     Is  she  crying?  " 

"  Yes,  she's  crying.  She's  crying,  Rine,  about 
Gertrude." 

"About  whom?" 

"  About  Gertrude.  About  Ger-tru-ude !  "  Auntie 
Rine  began  to  scream.  "  She's  dead,  Rine." 

"Is  she  dead?" 

"  Yes,  the  poor  little  thing  died  at  Buitenzorg." 

"  Oh,  how  sad!     Is  Marie  still  crying,  Tine?  " 

"  Yes,  she's  still  crying,  Rine." 

"  But  then  who's  that  one,  Tine?  " 

"Who,  Rine?" 

"That  one,  the  girl  standing  beside  her?  She's 
crying,  she's  crying  too !  " 

"Beside  her?" 

"  Yes,  can't  you  see?    She's  crying  too!  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  screamed  Tine,  quite  lucid  now.  "  I 
know  her,  Rine,  I  know  her  quite  well,  quite  well." 

"  Then  who  is  it  ?     Is  it  Bertha  ?  " 

"  No,  Rine !  "  Auntie  Tine  screamed,  gradually 
more  and  more  shrilly,  always  thinking  that  she  was 
whispering  in  her  deaf  sister's  ear.  "  It's  not  Ber- 
tha. It's  not  Bertha.  But  I  know  her,  I  know  her." 

"Then  who  is  she?"  Auntie  Rine  screamed,  in 
her  turn. 

"  I'll  tell  you  who  she  is.     I'll  tell  you  who  she  is 
It's  Constance !  "  yelled  Auntie  Rine. 


432  SMALL    SOULS 

"Who?" 

"Constance!" 

"Constance?" 

"  Yes,  Constance  1  " 

"  Constance?" 

"Yes,  Constance!" 

"  The  bad  one !  "  screamed  Auntie  Rine. 

"  Yes,  Rine,  the  bad  one,  Rine.  She's  a  wicked 
woman,  Rine,  a  wicked  woman!  She  has  a 
lover!  .  .  ." 

"A  lover?" 

"  Yes,  Rine.  Can  you  understand  her  being 
here?  Can  you  understand  that  she's  not  ashamed? 
Can  you  understand  her  showing  herself?  Yes, 
Rine,  she's  a  wicked  woman,  she's  .  .  .  she's  .  .  ." 

"What  is  she,  Tine?" 

"  She's  .  .  .  she's  a  trollop,  Rine !  "  Auntie  Tine 
yelled,  shrilly.  "  A  common  trollop !  A  trollop  !  " 

"  Christine !  "  cried  Mrs.  van  Lowe.  "  Chris- 
tine !  Dorine !  " 

And  she  stood  up  and  tottered,  with  outstretched 
arms,  towards  the  two  old  sisters.  But  there  was  a 
loud  scream  and  a  laugh  that  cut  into  everybody  like 
a  knife:  Constance  had  fainted  in  Paul's  arms.  .  .  . 

The  boy,  Addie,  looked  round  with  a  haughty 
glance.  He  had  heard  everything,  as  had  Van  der 
Welcke,  who  stood  listening  apprehensively  at  the 
door  of  the  boudoir.  The  son  saw  his  father's 
deathly-pale  face  staring  like  a  mask.  He  saw  the 
horror  of  his  grandmother  and  of  all  his  uncles  and 
aunts.  He  now  saw  his  mother  prostrate  in  a  chair, 


SMALL   SOULS  433 

her  head  hanging  back,  like  a  corpse.  And  his  boy- 
ish lips,  with  their  faint  shading  of  down,  curved  into 
a  scornful  smile  as  he  said: 

"It's  all  about  nothing!  .  .  ." 


01  (JALlFOltfliM 
AT 

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